Turn the Page
by hoosiergirl81
Summary: Sam, Dean, and Ruthie are on the hunt. A killer leaves their victims dressed in costume and inexplicably dead. A vengeful werewolf lurks in the shadows. A new, unprecedented threat stalks them. But the greatest danger may come from within their own trio. -Sequel to More Than A Feeling
1. Chapter 1

Two flashlight beams swept the huge, high-ceilinged room: the dusty floor, the big metal saws, the stacks of freshly cut boards. Yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed one large saw. The steel semicircle above the cutting surface flashed in the focused light, its teeth still stained red. Dark drips striped the silver metal.

Sam turned his flashlight away. The scene he and Dean had witnessed here earlier today had been grisly, even by their standards. But it was definitely their kind of thing. One gruesome death at a lumber mill was an accident. Three in two weeks was supernatural.

Sam's light landed on a door. "Hey, Dean. Break room." The brothers headed in.

"What are we looking for, man?" Dean asked. "What part of Stu would still be left here after three months?"

Sam shook his head. They'd salted and burned Stu's bones the night before, but the shift supervisor had been found sawn in half this morning. Obviously, there was something here. They just didn't know what it was. Sam studied his side of the room: plastic folding chairs, two big coffee makers, three vending machines. No personal belongings.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nada."

They left the room and continued searching. More big blades, more boards, more sawdust. Then Dean called from up ahead. "Sammy. Locker room." That sounded promising.

A row of dingy, beat up, gray lockers lined the far side of the room. Strips of masking tape, curling up on the ends, bore employees' names in black Sharpie. Dean started on the right and worked his way along the row. "Rawlings, O'Dell, Brown, Carter—Bingo." Dean's light illuminated a strip of tape with the name "Barker." He glanced at Sam before opening the locker.

Their two beams fell on nothing. The locker appeared empty. "Oh, come on," Dean growled.

Sam guided his flashlight around the corners of the shelf, then down to the bottom of the locker. "Hey, wait." He bent lower, and spotted a small, dark comb, nearly the same color as the metal. Stuck between its thin teeth and littered around it was what amounted to a small pile of straight black hair. Sam moved aside and motioned for Dean to look.

His brother leaned in, and quickly straightened again, nose wrinkled. "Seriously?"

Sam shrugged. "One of the employees I interviewed said Stu was sort of OCD about combing his hair."

Dean eyed the bottom of the locker. "That's disgusting." Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket and tossed it to Sam. "I call not it."

Sam caught the lighter reflexively. "Dean, how is that—"

"Not it." Dean had already turned his back and started for the door.

Sam sighed. He crouched down, and after a moment's hesitation, started sweeping the hairs into a pile with his fingers. He brushed the pile and the comb out onto the floor, then flicked the lighter open.

Its low flame illuminated a well-worn pair of work boots that hadn't been there a moment before. Sam looked up to see a large, sallow, black-haired man in overalls with a patch bearing the name "Stu." His right leg was black with blood, and nearly severed at the thigh. Next instant, the ghost planted a boot in Sam's chest. His lungs flattened with an _oof_ as he flew backwards and crashed into a wall.

"Sam!" Dean fired the sawed-off from the doorway, but the ghost had already vanished. "Lighter!" Dean shouted.

Sam sucked in a breath of air, did his best to sit up straight, then held up his hands to examine them. The flashlight was still in his left, but his right was empty. He shook his head at Dean.

Dean came toward him, searching the floor with his own flashlight. Sam got up to help, gritting his teeth at the pain in his back. "There," Dean said, and bent to grab the lighter. He turned back toward the comb and mound of hair.

Stu rematerialized and backhanded Dean, launching him about ten feet sideways. He skidded across the floor until his head smashed into the door frame. He didn't get up.

Sam rushed toward Dean, toward the shotgun, toward the lighter. Cold hands clamped down on his shoulders and yanked him back. This time he slammed into metal; a locker cratered behind his head and shoulders before he fell to the floor. Slumped forward, he saw Stu's work boots walk away from him across the spinning, tilting floor. A moment later, he watched through patchy black clouds as Dean's limp legs and feet slid through the doorway and out of sight.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands to the sides of his head. His brain still rattled around inside his skull. He opened his eyes again. The room wobbled around him, but he pushed himself to his feet. He staggered toward the door, searching the floor for the lighter, the only way to end this.

A loud, mechanical whine split the quiet.

 _Oh, God, no._

Lighter forgotten, Sam sprinted toward the noise. It squealed louder in the big, open area. He spotted Stu on the other side of the room, hoisting Dean by the armpits up onto a cutting surface. Sam pounded toward them. "Dean!"

Dean lifted his head and opened his eyes. He glanced behind his head at the noise, and his eyes flew wide; their whites shone in the dim room. He mouthed, "Son of a bitch"—Sam read his lips, but couldn't hear his voice over the scream of the saw. Dean kicked at Stu, grabbed him by the wrists, tried to wrench free, but the ghost barely budged. White hands hauled Dean across the table, toward the spinning saw blade. On his back, Dean fought and wrestled, but the vengeful spirit was stronger. It dragged him closer and closer. His head was now inches from the deadly blade.

Sam pounded toward them, arms outstretched. But he wasn't going to make it. " _No!_ "

Just as the spinning blade reached Dean's hair, Stu paused. He looked down at his boots. Flames exploded up from his feet, and engulfed him. The ghost let out a furious cry as the fire intensified, condensed, consumed him. With a final blazing burst of heat, it vanished. Stu was gone.

Sam slowed down, panting, too relieved to wonder how it had happened. He caught Dean by the arm as his brother slid off the table. "You okay?"

Dean cupped a hand around his ear. "Huh?"

Sam searched around the table until he found a switch, and flipped it. The screaming saw slowed and stopped. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You okay?"

Dean touched the top of his head, where he'd slammed into the door frame, and winced. "I'm fine." He gestured at the spot where the ghost had stood moments before. "What the hell happened? What took him so long to burn after you lit the hair?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, I didn't…"

The door to the locker room burst open. A woman with a dark ponytail ran toward them. She clutched Dean's lighter in one hand, and the half-melted, smoldering comb in the other. Sam felt Dean stiffen at his side.

Ruthie stopped in front of them. A shaft of moonlight illuminated anxious brown eyes, a tipped-up nose, and just a hint of freckles. She scanned each of them head to toe, then exhaled. "Thank God."

"What part of 'stay in the car' don't you understand?" Dean growled.

She flinched, but then her eyes flashed, and her chin tipped up at a defiant angle. "I guess the part where you die if I do."

"We had it under control."

She shot a skeptical look at Sam. He gave her an apologetic shrug. He wasn't going to get dragged into another one of their arguments right now.

Dean jabbed a finger at Ruthie. "Next time, you're staying at the motel. Or better yet, the bunker." He marched off toward the exit.

She glared at his back, then loudly asked Sam, "Is he always this ungrateful?"

Dean didn't break stride.

Sam patted her on the back. "Yeah, pretty much." He followed Dean, and after a moment, Ruthie's light footsteps trotted behind him.

She fell into step beside him, and handed him the lighter. "He won't really make me stay behind next time, will he?" She glanced ahead at Dean's resolute form, her face strained. "I can't take much more of the bunker, Sam. A few days alone now and then are fine, but…"

"Not weeks at a time?"

She looked up at him with a pained expression, and shook her head.

Sam remembered what it felt like to be left behind, left alone, while Dad and Dean went off hunting. The boredom, the restlessness, the suffocating quiet that no radio or television could fill. The gnawing conviction that while they were doing important, heroic work, he was utterly useless. It was why he'd taken Ruthie's side and talked Dean into letting her come along on their last several hunts.

"Even waiting in the motel, not knowing…" Ruthie's voice tightened and trailed off.

Sam remembered that feeling, too. More than the loneliness, more than the uselessness, he remembered the waiting. The seed of dread that lay dormant while Dad and Dean were with him had always sprouted as soon as they drove away. Each hour they were gone, it had grown inside him, sending down roots, spreading out tendrils that wound around his heart and squeezed. The relentless rustle of its dark leaves whispered that this time, they weren't coming back.

He put an arm around Ruthie's shoulders. "I know."

She leaned against him as they made their way between the saws and piles of lumber. "I know I promised to stay in the car, but when I heard the shotgun—" Ruthie stared ahead, watching Dean disappear through the door. "I couldn't just sit there, Sam. I couldn't stand it."

"Dean's lucky you didn't."

"Try telling him that." She let out a short, bitter laugh. "I actually thought he'd be proud of me."

A twinge of empathy plucked at Sam's chest. Yet another feeling he could relate to: wanting to make his big brother proud. "He is, even if he never says it. He just wants to keep you safe."

She took a deep breath. "I know. But the past several months have taught me that there are more important things in life than always being safe."

Sam squeezed her shoulder. "Let him cool off. I'll talk to him later, after we're back home."

"Thanks, Sam."

They stepped out into the chilly, early spring night. The Impala idled in the parking lot, waiting for them.

Dean stuck his head out the window. "Let's go. I need a drink."

Sam and Ruthie climbed in. "Sounds good to me," Sam said. His muscles hadn't relaxed since Dean's close call.

"Guess I'm the designated driver, then," Ruthie said.

Sam shot a sideways look at his brother, silently instructing him not to shoot her down too hard. But to his amazement, Dean gave her a single nod in the rearview, then pulled out of the parking lot.

Sam stifled a grin. If Dean was willing to let Ruthie drive his Baby, then his tantrum inside had all been a bluff. She was a card-carrying member of the Circle of Trust now. Sam leaned back in his seat. He already knew how it would go: Dean would fuss and stomp his feet for show, make some empty threats, and Ruthie would continue to travel with them on hunts.

Until they iced that wolf, anyway. If it ever showed itself again. Sam frowned. The absence of any clues about the werewolf who'd threatened them nagged at him. They should have found something by now.

He ran a hand through his hair and pushed the lone wolf from his mind. He'd worked enough for one night.


	2. Chapter 2

Silent shadows slipped unnoticed through the gap clipped in the chain link fence on the outskirts of the city. One by one, the abandoned warehouse absorbed them.

Inside, dark shapes milled uneasily, some standing in groups of two or three, some lingering alone against the walls. Crossed arms and suspicious glances filled the room like the stirred-up dust motes swirling through the air.

A husky, bearded figure stepped to the front of the room, and the low hum of murmurs quieted. The man's eyes glinted in the darkness as he addressed the gathering in a raspy voice.

"First off, let's get one thing out in the open. We don't like each other much. Most of us, we prefer to keep to our own kind." No one spoke, but several pairs of feet shifted on the dusty floor. "But I invited you here because we've got something in common. A common enemy." He paused, and scanned his audience. "How many of you know somebody who's rotting in Purgatory right now because a Winchester sent them there?"

Angry grumbles filled the room. The man nodded slowly. "So, the question is, are we gonna keep hiding? Keep hoping we've got a little more time before they come knocking at our door? Or are we gonna do something?"

A nervous voice came from the back of the room. "I heard they killed your pack—a whole pack of purebloods. Is it true?"

The man's jaw jutted out. "Yes. And those cocky bastards will pay."

The voice responded more loudly. "Is that why you brought us here? To help you get revenge? We're not going to die for you."

A fresh wave of muttering spread through the room.

"No," the man said, stepping forward. "I brought you here so we can all save our own skins. So we can stop living in fear."

"Taking on the Winchesters is suicide!" a woman shouted, and many raised their voices in assent.

The man up front snarled. Long, thick nails sprouted from his fingertips, and a mouthful of yellow teeth protruded from his face. His audience froze; the clamor of voices fell silent.

"Cowards!" he snarled, yellow eyes blazing. "They're humans. They bleed just like the rest. We'll _make_ them bleed." He glared around the room, breathing hard. Several tense moments ticked by. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His mouth shrank back to human proportions; the claws disappeared into his fingers. He opened eyes that were dull brown once more. "Listen to me. The Winchesters hunt us. They study us. They choose when to fight. They track us, find us, and kill us. No one's ever beaten them, because we've always fought alone. Until now."

He walked slowly through the room, every eye fixed on him. "It's time to turn the tables. We become the hunters, not the hunted. We join forces. Stop playing defense. We study them. We choose when and where to attack. We find their weaknesses and exploit them."

Exchanged glances bounced throughout the room.

A measured grin spread across his hairy face. "Imagine: One Winchester, surrounded by a dozen of us he wasn't expecting. He needs silver for werewolves, shapeshifters, wraiths. A big blade for vampires and ghouls. Fire for rugarus. How can he fight all of us at once?" His eyes glinted again in the dimness. "He can't. He'll be dead before he can choose a weapon."

Wicked grins mirrored his own, and heads nodded throughout the gathering. "We have to be patient," he warned. "We get one shot at this. After that, the element of surprise is gone." He eyed each creature. "So. You have a choice. You can leave now. Go back to your nests and lairs and houses, and wait for the day when the death twins come knocking. Or, you can join me. You can be the predator. We can end them."

The musty air buzzed with excited murmurs. The dark shapes drifted closer together and huddled around the speaker, united, if only temporarily, in their common purpose.


	3. Chapter 3

Ruthie set a beer in front of each brother, then settled into a seat at the table with her own cold bottle in hand. The bunker's library, with its sleek wooden tables and shelves of old lore books, had become her favorite place. Especially when she wasn't alone. The cool glow of their laptops lit the men's faces, and she turned her attention to her own screen as the three of them continued to research in comfortable silence.

Her bottle was half empty by the time Sam spoke up. "So get this. A woman's body was found on a boat in Missouri, at Table Rock Lake. Her tongue was cut out, and her feet were bleeding, but there were no wounds on them."

"No cuts or scrapes at all, they were just seeping blood?" Ruthie asked.

"That's what it says."

Dean took a swig of beer. "It's weird; I'll give you that. But what makes you think this is our kind of gig?"

Sam glanced at his screen. "Well, did I mention her legs were fused together?"

Ruthie raised her eyebrows, and Dean did the same. "So, we're thinking witch, then?" Ruthie asked.

"Worth checking out," Sam said.

"Alright, hold on a sec," Dean said, holding up a hand. "I enjoy shanking witches as much as the next guy, but we're supposed to be finding that werewolf, not looking for new cases. I thought we agreed."

Sam closed his laptop. "I know. But there's nothing, Dean. We've been looking for a week; Ruthie's been looking for months, and there's not a trace of it anywhere."

"Yeah." Dean frowned. "Does that seem right to you?"

"No. It bugs the hell out of me. But what can we do about it? The way I see it, all we can do is keep looking until something turns up, and until then, we keep hunting."

Ruthie sat quietly, eyes on her beer bottle, which she clasped with both hands to keep from fidgeting. As far as the guys knew, she had been searching for signs of werewolf activity every day since they'd brought her to the bunker. And she had—for the first week or so. After that, she'd given them a steady stream of cases to work, but told them that despite her efforts, there was no news on the wolf front. The truth was, she'd carefully avoided running any searches on victims with missing hearts, or apparent animal attacks.

If they found the werewolf, they'd kill it. Then she'd be safe.

Then there would be no reason for them to let her stay.

"Ruthie?" Dean watched her, curiosity crinkling the corners of his eyes. He waited for her to answer a question she hadn't heard.

"Hmm?"

"Where were you?"

"I was just…thinking about my dad," she lied. "He used to get really frustrated when a perp would drop off the grid." That part was true. Unexpected tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away.

"Oh." Dean shot a glance at Sam before looking back at her. "I asked what you want to do."

She took a breath and set her beer on the table. "I say we go on a witch hunt."

Dean watched her a moment longer. "Okay then." He drained his beer, and stood up. He glanced over the table, then patted his front and back jeans pockets. "Anybody seen my phone?"

Sam shook his head. Ruthie picked up her cell. "I can call it." She hit Dean's name at the top of her favorites list—which consisted of him and Sam. A few moments later, from across the room, came a woman's soulful voice, backed by acoustic guitar. "Chris-TEE-na, ohh, waah, ohhhhh, yeah…"

Dean's head flinched back; he shot a horrified look first at Sam, then Ruthie. "What the hell is that?"

"Chris-TEE-na, ohh, waah, ohhhhh, yeah…"

Ruthie covered her mouth with her hand while the unseen singer crooned the nickname she'd given Dean. She didn't use it on him much anymore, only when she thought he was hiding something, or when she wanted to irritate him. This was her revenge for his attitude at the lumber mill.

Dean threw her a disgusted glare, then hurried across the room and snatched his phone off a bookshelf. He jabbed the screen, and the music stopped. He marched back over to Ruthie and stuck the phone in her face. "Fix it."

She tried to look innocent. "Don't you like Patty Griffin? I heard her coming from your room the other day."

Dean turned his back to her and held out his phone to Sam. "Fix it."

Sam sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and grinned.

Ruthie closed her laptop and picked up her beer. "Come on, Chrissy. Now you'll always know when it's me calling. Give it a chance. It'll grow on you."

He pointed at her, then Sam. "You both suck." He grabbed his laptop and stalked out of the room. His boots stomped up the stairs while Sam and Ruthie laughed behind his back.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean flipped through the last of the crime scene photos. A red-haired woman lay on the deck of a big, expensive boat. Blood had spilled from her mouth and feet, leaving small pools on the polished wood. Sam's article had gotten the details of her physical condition correct, but had failed to mention her clothing. She was dressed in a seashell bra, and her fused legs were only discovered after the shiny, green, costume mermaid tail was removed. Dean frowned down at the disturbing images. This was creepy, even for him.

"Bizarre, right?" Chief Kenwood said. "I gotta tell you, we're glad to have you in on this one, agents. We haven't had a murder in Reeds Spring in twenty years, let alone something like this." Kenwood stayed back near the door, looking sideways at the pictures, as though he preferred to keep as much distance from them as possible.

Sam tossed his stack of photos onto the desk and adjusted his tie. "Have you identified the victim?"

"Cara Young. She was a grad student at Mizzou. Here for the weekend with a couple friends. We're a very small town, but we get a lot of tourists here for the lake. The peace and quiet."

"Cause of death?" Sam asked.

Chief Kenwood turned his big, dark blue hat over in his hands. "That's the darnedest thing. Coroner says he can't find one. She lost some blood, but not near enough to kill her. Strong heart, healthy lungs, clean tox screen. She just…died." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I talked to every doc in town. Nobody's ever heard of anything that can make somebody's legs stick together like that. Or make your feet bleed for no apparent reason."

"How about her tongue being gone? Got an explanation for that?" Dean asked dryly.

The chief swallowed. "Well, yeah, somebody cut it out."

"What was she doing on the boat?" Dean asked. "Did they rent it or something?"

Chief Kenwood scratched his large, round stomach. "Nope. That's where it gets even weirder. She had no business on that boat. I've known the owners my whole life. They've been in Michigan since Tuesday, visiting their grandkids."

"We'll need to speak to her friends. Are they still in town?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, they're at the Bluebird Bed and Breakfast. Had a deputy talk to them this morning. They're real shook up. Did say one interesting thing: that her hair wasn't red before. Cara was a strawberry blonde. Nothing else very helpful, I'm afraid."

"We need to take a look at the crime scene, too," Dean said.

"Whatever you needs, agents. We want to catch this psycho right away. Whole town's spooked." Kenwood backed toward the door and opened it for them, leaving the photos on the desk.

Out in the fresh air, heading for the Impala, Sam spoke first. "I'll interview the friends; you check the boat for hex bags?"

Dean nodded, and they climbed in. He dropped Sam off at the bed and breakfast, then drove to the marina. The boat was even bigger and fancier than it had looked in the photos. He flashed his badge at an officer stationed on the dock, then stepped aboard. Two dried bloodstains on the deck just outside the cabin marked where Cara Young's life had ended. Dean stood over the spot for a moment, head bowed, mouth tight. Then he went to work.

Ten minutes of searching was all it took. He found the little pouch, a piece of brown cloth tied with string, tucked into the back of a drawer in the cabin. It rattled when he shook it. He grimaced his distaste, and stuffed the hex bag into his jacket pocket. It was a little late now, but they'd burn it later, just to be safe. "Freaking witches," he muttered.

"Chris-TEE-na, ohh, waah—"

He yanked his phone from his pocket and hit Answer. "Alright, Ruthie, are you really gonna—"

"We've got another one, Dean. Get to Lonely Grove Cabins, just west of town on Ozark Road."

"Another mermaid?"

"No. But it's another weird one. I have a theory. Get here quick."

"I gotta pick Sam up— Wait. What do you mean, get _here_?"

Click.

Dean rolled his eyes up to the clouds and huffed. This girl. Give her an inch…

He swung by the bed and breakfast to get Sam, who hadn't had much luck in his interview with Cara's friends. "Kenwood was right about the hair. They say the murderer must have dyed it. And he was right that they didn't know much else. They say she went out that evening to pick up ice cream from the little market down the street. It was close, so she walked. She never came back."

Dean pulled back onto the road. "And the cops have no witnesses, no security cameras, nothing."

Sam responded with a single shake of his head. "Tell me you found a hex bag."

"I got it."

"So at least we know for sure it's a witch." Sam glanced out the window at the lake speeding by. "Where are we going?"

"Ruthie called. We've got another body."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Another mermaid?"

Dean shook his head. "She just said it was weird." His voice tightened. "She's already there."

He watched for Sam's response, but Sam just gazed ahead at the road. "Oh."

" _'Oh?_ That's your reaction? She's going to crimes scenes now—alone—and you say 'Oh?'"

Sam shrugged. "She wants to help. She was cooped up in the bunker for months, studying and researching…she already knows more lore than a lot of hunters we've met. You can't blame her for wanting to _do_ something."

"Yeah, I can. Because that wasn't the deal. The deal was, she cooks and cleans; we keep her safe."

Sam's head swiveled toward him, one eyebrow sky high. "You do realize you sound like a Neanderthal, right?"

Dean frowned. He'd rather not answer that. "I promised to keep her safe, Sam. How am I supposed to do that when she won't follow orders, and she's always putting herself in danger?"

"She won't 'follow orders?'" Sam scoffed. "Since when do you get to give her orders?" Sam's voice rose steadily. "And what if that werewolf never turns up? What if some other hunter got it and we never find out? Are you gonna keep her locked up in the bunker for the rest of her life?"

Dean tried to reply, but Sam cut him off. "You act like she's helpless, but she's already saved your ass twice. Maybe instead of this macho alpha male thing, you could try teaching her to protect herself. She wants to learn, Dean, so why are you treating her like a little kid?"

Dean glanced between the road and Sam's reddened face, taken aback by his brother's intensity. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, "Help me clear this up: Are we still talking about Ruthie? Or is this 'Therapy For Sammy's Childhood' hour?"

Sam pressed his lips together and faced the road again. "Okay, Dean. You want to try and psychoanalyze me, fine. But you know I'm right."

Dean kneaded the steering wheel in his hands, letting his brother have the last word. He hated to admit it, but Sam had a point. Ruthie was obviously going to do what she wanted, no matter what he said.

The solution was obvious: he needed to kill that damn werewolf. Then she'd be safe. She could get back to her normal life, and out of their screwed up one.

The thought should have made him happy. Instead, it twisted the pit of his stomach. The past few months had been the best ones he could remember. And it wasn't just because her cooking was almost as good as sex. He liked having her around. He liked making her laugh, and sometimes liked making her angry even better. He liked having someone to come home to.

A quiet, honest part of himself spoke up. _You like having_ her _to come home to._

Well, the quiet, honest part of himself could shut up. Ruthie was smart. She was a nurse. She could go anywhere, settle down, have a life. A family. Wanting her to stick around was selfish, something he wanted for himself, not for her.

She'd clicked into their lives like a final puzzle piece, and he knew once she was gone, something would be missing. But he owed her. He owed it to her to kill that werewolf and let her get on with her life.

In the meantime, he'd have to figure out how to keep her safe without keeping her prisoner.


	5. Chapter 5

The setting sun did its best to blind Sam as they drove west out of town. A hand-painted wooden sign for Lonely Grove Cabins guided them down a long dirt road through the forest. Soon, they reached a tiny parking lot where three police cruisers, lights flashing, were parked haphazardly. One log cabin faced the lot. Another hand-painted sign above the porch read "Sales Office." A blonde, middle-aged woman in a flowery skirt huddled on the front steps, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

A chorus of cicadas greeted them as they got out and headed toward her. Sam noticed several trails leading off from the parking lot into the woods. But before they reached her, she stretched out a trembling arm, pointing to their left. "That way," she said in a hollow voice.

Fair enough. They could interview her later.

He and Dean followed her pointing finger onto the far left trail. The well-worn dirt path took them into the woods and around a gentle curve. Voices drifted through the humid air from up ahead. As the trail straightened out, Sam spotted a tiny cabin about twenty yards ahead. Lights shone through the two front windows, illuminating two crime scene techs moving around, bending down, shooting photos. Two people stood on the front stoop: a police officer in a dark blue uniform, and a ponytailed woman in a black blazer and fitted trousers. They appeared deep in conversation. As he and Dean got closer, Sam noticed the officer seemed to be having trouble maintaining eye contact with the woman. His gaze kept sliding down her, then snapping back to her face.

He and Dean were almost on top of them by the time the officer seemed to notice. He lifted his square-jawed face to them, eyed the badges they held out, and said, "Here they are."

Ruthie turned toward them and beamed. "Officer Dixon, these are my colleagues, Agent Plant and Agent Page," she said, nodding at Dean and Sam respectively. She gestured at the cop and told them, "Officer Dixon was kind enough to give me a ride after our mixup with the car."

Officer Dixon gave Ruthie a honeyed smile. "Please, Agent Griffin, I've told you to call me Dan." Then he turned to Sam and Dean and wagged a finger at them. "Tsk, tsk, agents. Leaving your lovely partner behind, and with her badge in your car, too? I almost didn't bring her to the scene. I thought the feds were supposed to be professionals."

Dean's face went thunderous. Sam spoke up before he could lash out at the guy. "Yes, that was our mistake. Sorry about that, Agent Griffin."

Ruthie shot a nervous glance at Dean. "No harm done. Officer Dixon, these are excellent field agents, and your department is lucky to have them in on this investigation."

The man gave her a deep nod of his sandy blond head. "Yes, ma'am." He swept an arm behind him, at the cabin. "Shall we?"

He led the way, and Ruthie stood aside to let Sam and Dean go first. But Dean held out his arm toward the door and gave her a forced smile. "Oh, no. After you, Agent Griffin."

Ruthie glanced up at Sam. He shrugged and nodded her toward the door. Either Dean had taken his rant to heart, or he was just playing along while there were witnesses.

The inside of the cabin was a single room with only a double bed in the middle and two chairs on one wall. The crime scene drove the Dean-vs-Ruthie drama from his mind. A pale young woman lay on her right side on the floor near the foot of the bed. She wore a dress with a blue bodice and long, yellow skirt. It had blue and red puffed sleeves, and a high white collar around the back. A headband with a bow stood out blood red against her short, jet black hair. Her left arm draped over her hip. Her right arm lay on the floor, her hand several inches from her face, fingers curved in a graceful fan. Near her hand lay a vivid, perfect red apple with one white bite taken out.

Sam ran a hand across his forehead. Ruthie had told Dean this was a weird one, and she hadn't been lying. "So, do we have an ID on our Snow White?"

Dixon consulted a notepad. "Lily Rushton, of St. Louis. Here on vacation with her boyfriend. He's down at the station now. Funny thing: he says her hair was brown."

Sam exchanged a glance with Dean.

"Were they staying here?" Dean asked.

"No," Ruthie spoke up. "They were staying in town. In fact, I interviewed the manager here, and she says this cabin isn't available for rent right now because it's getting a new roof tomorrow. It was locked."

"Let me guess," said Dean. "No signs of forced entry?"

Dixon tore his gaze away from Ruthie to gape at Dean. "How'd you know that?"

Dean looked down his nose at the guy, literally. "We're the feds," he said. "We're professionals."

"No known witnesses," Ruthie said. "And no cameras."

"Cause of death?" Sam asked.

"The ME doesn't know," Dixon said. "No visible injuries, no signs of strangulation or suffocation."

"What about poison?" Sam asked.

"We'll have to wait for the autopsy and tox screen."

"But you're treating this as a homicide?"

"Well, yeah, after the other one on the boat. Wouldn't you say we've got a pattern here, agents?"

"Officer Dixon has a working theory," Ruthie told them, with a mischievous quirk of her mouth.

Dixon's chest puffed up. "Wanna hear it?"

Dean looked as though he'd rather listen to the same Bieber song on repeat for an hour. Sam jumped in. "Shoot."

The cop stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I'm thinking we got some sort of pervert with a princess fetish."

They waited, but after making eye contact with each of them, he stepped back and nodded dramatically. Dean stared at the guy while Ruthie pressed her lips together, their corners twitching upward. Apparently, keeping up appearances was all on Sam tonight.

"Ah," he said. "Well, you've definitely given us something to think about." He tipped his head toward the door. "Should we give these folks room to work?"

Officer Dixon led the way again. He stepped down off the porch onto the ground, then turned and held out his hand for Ruthie. She took it as she stepped down. Dean made a low noise in his throat. Sam glanced at him, and nearly put an arm out across his brother's chest. Dean was looking at Dixon as though he'd just caught the guy trying to steal the Impala.

Ruthie dropped the cop's hand as soon as her second foot hit the ground. "Thank you for all your help, Officer Dixon."

He tipped his hat to her. "It was my pleasure, ma'am. May I offer you a ride back to town?"

"That's very kind—"

"We need to debrief with Agent Griffin." Dean stepped forward, directly in front of the cop. "We'll be in touch if we need anything." He stuck his hand out, and Dixon took it. While they shook hands, the officer's face paled.

Sam stepped in, clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Time to go."

The three of them headed back along the moonlit trail toward the parking lot. Sam tried to set the tone. "So, Ruthie, you interviewed the manager?"

"Yeah. She was pretty shaken up. She's the one who found the victim."

"But she didn't hear or see anything else strange or out of the ordinary at all?"

Ruthie shook her head. "No. I did ask," she added.

"You did great," Sam told her, with a pointed sideways look at Dean. "Thanks for your help."

Dean didn't take the hint right away. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the Impala. As they cruised back into town, Dean finally glanced at Ruthie in the rearview and spoke up. "So, we've got somebody dressing girls up as Disney princesses, then offing them. We heard Dudley Do-Right's theory. What's yours?"

She leaned forward, eagerness flushing her cheeks. "Okay. I started thinking in this direction before we even left the bunker, and so far, everything we've learned fits." She took a breath, hesitating for a second. "I think this is performance art."

She glanced back and forth from him to Dean, looking as though she expected to be laughed at. But they just sat, waiting. She continued. "Usually with performance art, there's a performer, but this one doesn't stick around, for obvious reasons. The theme is witches' revenge, or revisionist history, I guess, if we consider fairy tales as history."

Sam sat up straighter. "I think I see where you're going with this."

"I got no clue what you're talking about." Dean's forehead creased. "Somebody really hates Disney or something?"

Ruthie shook her head. "I don't think Disney is the focus. It's the witches in the stories. In Snow White, the evil queen uses witchcraft to poison an apple, and tries to kill Snow White. But of course the prince saves her; he brings her back to life."

"And now we've got Snow White dead on the floor," Sam said. "The witch won."

"Exactly."

Sam frowned. "But what about the Little Mermaid? Her deal with the sea witch was that if the prince didn't kiss her in time, she'd be turned back into a mermaid, and belong to the witch. Not be murdered."

Dean leaned away from him, looking disgusted. "Dude. Why do you know that?"

Sam ignored him, and Ruthie explained. "That's the Disney version. In the original Hans Christian Andersen story, there was no time limit, but the prince had to marry her. If he married someone else, the little mermaid would turn into sea foam."

"But sea foam doesn't get the same kind of attention as a dead girl with mermaid legs," Dean said.

"Right," Ruthie agreed. "And in the story, he does marry someone else. On a boat. But her sisters save her and she becomes a spirit of the air rather than dying."

Sam still wasn't clear on the details. "But what about her tongue being cut out? Is that to represent giving up her voice? And why the bleeding feet?"

"In the story, the sea witch doesn't magically take away the mermaid's voice," Ruthie said. "She cuts out her tongue. And she warns her that every step on her human feet will feel like stepping on knives. The little mermaid dances for the prince even though it's agony and her feet bleed."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "This is a kids' story? That's messed up."

Ruthie shrugged. "Lots of old fairy tales are pretty gruesome."

They reached their motel; Dean pulled up in front of their door and killed the engine.

Sam thought over everything Ruthie had said, and compared it with the facts they'd gathered. "Ruthie, I think you're onto something. Your theory does seem to fit what we know so far."

She didn't answer, but looked down with a modest smile. Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, and tilted his head slightly toward the back seat.

"Uh, yeah," Dean said. "That's good work."

Ruthie's smile brightened. "I'm just glad I can help."

"Knowing the why is great and everything," Dean added, "but what we need to know is the who."

Ruthie's face fell, and Sam fought the urge to punch his brother in the shoulder. They all got out and walked to the motel door. "We've got a good start now, thanks to you," Sam told Ruthie. "We'll get her. What sort of person do you think we're looking for?"

"You mean aside from being a creepy-ass witch?" Dean said as he unlocked the door.

Ruthie's gears were turning. "Well, maybe someone who likes literature? Someone artistic, maybe theatrical."

Sam nodded. "That's good. We can start there."

Inside, Dean went straight to the mini fridge and pulled out three beers.

"None for me," Ruthie said while she lifted her duffel bag off the sofa and started pulling out the hide-a-bed. "I'm going to have a shower and go to bed."

Dean handed Sam a beer, then set his own down on the little table and went to help her. "You always end up the the sofa bed everywhere we go. I'll take this thing tonight." He gestured across the room at the farther of two double beds. "You take mine."

Sam paused mid-sip. This was new.

"No, it's okay." She took one corner of the blanket, Dean took the other, and they pulled it up to cover the unfolded bed. "I don't mind."

Dean eyed the thin mattress with distaste, but when he looked back up at Ruthie, his face softened. "I insist."

She reached up to massage her neck and shoulder. "Are you sure?"

He picked up her bag, walked across the room, and dropped it on the double bed.

Ruthie exhaled. "Thank you." Then she threw a dirty look at the sofa bed. "I'm afraid you're going to regret this act of chivalry, though." She went to get her bag, then, with a last thankful smile to Dean, she disappeared into the bathroom.

The door reopened a moment later. "I almost forgot," she said. "Here." She tossed a small object to Dean, who reached up and caught it one-handed. "I found it at the cabin," she told him.

He looked down at the little brown pouch in his hand.

"Nice, Ruthie!" Sam called.

"Yeah," Dean said, looking impressed. "Good work."

Her face lit up.

Then Dean frowned. "How did you manage to take this without Dudley noticing?"

One corner of her mouth twitched up. "It was wedged under one of the chair seats. I had to bend over to get it. I was pretty sure he wasn't looking at my hands."

Dean froze for a beat. The backs of his ears turned red. Then he blinked, and said, "Right," in a higher pitch than usual.

Ruthie pulled out her ponytail, and long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back. "It feels really good to be helping, finally." She turned, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Dean continued to watch the bathroom door for several seconds, in a sort of trance. Then for a few more seconds after the shower turned on.

Sam just smiled to himself, and kept his mouth shut.


	6. Chapter 6

Ruthie woke the next morning feeling fantastic. Probably because she hadn't had to sleep on that damned lumpy sofa bed with crooked springs jabbing into her back and shoulders and hips and anywhere else they could reach. She dressed quietly in the bathroom, careful not to wake the boys. Back in the dim main room, she passed Sam's bed, where he lay on his back, sleeping peacefully. Walking past the sofa bed, she had to stifle a giggle with her hand. Dean was scrunched into a ball on the foot of the bed, half the sheets and blankets twisted around him, the other half spilling onto the floor.

Poor guy. She knew how he felt. She'd make him an extra special meal when they got back home. For now, she picked up his green jacket and gently covered his exposed back and arm.

She slipped out the door, closing it slowly and quietly. She'd enjoy the morning air while she walked to the bakery to get them all some breakfast.

But she didn't even make it into the parking lot.

The morning paper leered up at her, its front page shouting in all caps: "ANIMAL ATTACK."

She stared at it for a long moment before snatching it up from the concrete, and quickly skimmed the story. An RV park north of town, a man found in the woods, torn open, heart missing.

This was it. She'd spent months trying to avoid it, and now it had practically knocked on her door. She scanned the parking lot, the nearby road, the buildings, the trees. She didn't see anything, but she didn't feel safe anymore. The bakery could wait.

She eased the door open, went back inside, and sat on her bed, holding the folded paper in jittery hands. She ought to wake the boys right away. But she didn't. She needed to process this. What were the chances of a werewolf hitting this little town, while the Winchesters happened to be here? She desperately wanted it to be random, but she didn't believe in coincidence. No, this had to be their wolf.

Which meant it was ready now. It knew they were here. And it had announced its presence. It was trying to draw them out. Ruthie shuddered.

She knew it was stupid of her to worry about them. They'd been doing this for a long time before she'd come along. But she couldn't help it. Their job was so dangerous. She'd already had to treat their injuries a few times since she'd first sewed Dean up. She dreaded the day one or both of them would come home with wounds she couldn't heal. If they came home at all.

And this time was different. Usually, they were the hunters.

But the real reason she was sitting there in the dark, listening to their breathing, holding a trembling newspaper and not waking them, was that if they won, it would be over. They'd take her back to Idaho. Except the little cabin in the forest wasn't her home anymore. Nor was the bunker in Kansas, really. Home was wherever the Winchester brothers were. The solitude she'd once craved now loomed over her like a gaping-mouthed monster. How could she go back to a normal life now, knowing the things she knew? Having seen the things she'd seen?

How could she go back to a life without _them_?

Ruthie looked over at Sam. No one in her whole life, except her father, had ever shown her more kindness. Her chest swelled. God, how she loved him. His occasional outbursts of sass, and his devotion to Dean, and his wide smile, and his puppy dog eyes that couldn't seem to decide which color to be.

And Dean—

A physical pang darted through her. Her chest contracted; her throat tightened. She tore her gaze from the huddled lump at the end of the sofa bed. She swallowed painfully, and folded the paper again, into a tight roll.

She couldn't leave them. She couldn't even bear to think about it.

And yet, she couldn't allow people to keep being eaten by a vengeful werewolf, either.

A sudden, half-formed idea sprang into her mind. The werewolf wanted Sam and Dean. It was expecting Sam and Dean. If someone were to catch it by surprise, and kill it, and the boys never found out about it—

"Well, that sucked."

Dean's low, scratchy, morning voice jolted Ruthie out of her own head. In an instant, she slid off the bed and jammed the newspaper into her duffel bag. They'd probably hear about it before long, but hopefully a head start was all she'd need. She'd come up with a plan on the way.

She turned to see Dean staring at her from across the room. He sat on the edge of the sofa bed, bleary-eyed, rubbing his neck, yet alert. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered too quickly, too high-pitched. Sam stirred and opened his eyes.

Ruthie crossed the room, went to the little table, and clinked the empty beer bottles together as she picked them up and put them in the green recycling bin. The noise covered the sound of the car keys sliding off the table and into her jacket pocket. "I'll go get us some breakfast."

Dean stood up. "Alone? No."

From his bed, Sam loudly cleared his throat.

Dean glared at him, a muscle in his chest twitching. "There's a psycho, girl-murdering, performance witch in this town, anybody remember?"

Ruthie opened the door. Sunlight poured into the room, and both men shielded their eyes. "It's right down the street. I'll get jelly doughnuts." She didn't wait for Dean to speak again; she stepped through the door and shut it behind her.

She hurried around the car to the trunk and opened it, praying Sam and Dean were arguing about her and they wouldn't hear, wouldn't open the curtains. She couldn't take the Impala; Dean would be out the door in half a second if she turned the engine, and she couldn't run him over. She'd just have to walk. It was a small town. With a head start and a little luck…

She fished through the stash of weapons, searching for an extra handgun and the box of silver bullets. Pistols weren't her strong suit; after hours of training in the bunker's range, she was still much more comfortable with the long guns she'd grown up with. But she couldn't exactly carry a rifle through town. _Hurry up, Ruthie._

Something soft billowed against her from behind, like a breeze, but more tangible. Like a bubble that couldn't be popped. It undulated around her—through her. Her body went slack, her mind blank.

"Close the trunk," commanded a steely voice that might have come from behind her, or from the sky, or inside her own head.

She didn't intend to obey, nor disobey. She watched as her hand closed the trunk.

"Drop the keys," the voice said.

Her fingers uncurled; the keys fell to the ground.

"Turn around."

She turned around. A woman stood facing her, several feet away. At first glance, she might have been in her forties. But her long, curly bob was gray with streaks of white, and deep crows' feet dug into the outer corners of her hard, gray eyes. There was something ancient about her. Was she sixty? Seventy, even? She wore a long, straw-colored broom skirt, a pink peasant blouse, and a long, slouchy, blue vest with a deep pocket at the bottom on each side. Long, beaded necklaces hung in layers around her tall neck.

The woman looked Ruthie up and down with eyes like granite. "The hair is too dark, but we'll remedy that. You'll do nicely." She turned and started walking away, toward the street. "Come along."

Ruthie's feet obeyed, taking one step after another, following several paces behind the gray-eyed woman, out of the parking lot and down the road. Just as she'd been hoping moments earlier, her boys did not open the door.


	7. Chapter 7

"You know, Dean, it's nice out. You could try walking back and forth out there. It would almost be like exercise."

Dean was in no mood for Sam to be calm. "It's been half an hour. Where the hell is she?"

"Maybe there was a line."

Since his tongue-lashing from Sam the evening before, Dean had been trying not to treat Ruthie like she was helpless. But every minute she'd been gone had brought a new, horrible scenario to his imagination: Ruthie dressed like Sleeping Beauty, dead. Like Cinderella, dead. Like the chick from Beauty and the Beast, dead. It probably didn't help that he was hungry. And his whole body ached from sleeping on that freaking sofa bed—if you could call it sleeping.

He kept pacing, watching Sam irritably for a few minutes, sitting there with his laptop, searching for leads on any artistic, potential witches in town. It wasn't right for Sam's hair to be so perfect right now. It mocked him, laying there all smooth and Fabio-ish, while he himself was too frazzled to even sit down. He almost turned toward Ruthie's bed to ask if Sam had been using her shampoo. But of course, she wasn't there.

Dean yanked his phone out of his pocket and scowled at it, willing it to sing "Chris-TEE-na" at him. But it didn't. He punched her name in his contacts, ignoring Sam's crossed arms and scoldy face. It rang until her cheery voice told him to leave a message.

"Screw it," he said. "I'm going to get her."

"Dean—"

Dean ignored him, and marched out the door and toward the bakery.

Once he got there, it took only a minute for his fears to be confirmed. He raced back to their room and burst through the door, panting.

Sam looked up at him, startled.

"She's not there. The guy said he hasn't seen her today." Dean's voice was taut, like every muscle and tendon.

Fear flashed through Sam's eyes as he stood up. "Where do we look?"

Dean raked his hands through his hair. "I don't know." He scanned the room, not knowing what he was looking for. Something, anything—

His gaze landed on her duffel bag. He hurried over, crouched down, and dug inside. He pulled out a folded newspaper. He stood, opened it, and froze.

Sam came over. "What is it?"

Dean turned the paper for him to see. Sam's face paled.

"She hid this from me," Dean said in a low voice. "She didn't want us to see it. Why?"

Sam still looked shell-shocked. "I don't know. We've been looking for this thing for months."

"No," Dean said. " _She's_ been looking for months. Or that's what she's been telling us."

Sam frowned. "What are you saying?"

"I don't know, Sam." He waved the newspaper in the air. "All I know is, this paper shows up, she hides it from us and bolts."

Sam's eyes widened again. "You don't think she went after it alone?"

"She's not stupid." Even as he said it though, fingers of ice streaked through his chest.

Sam looked down at the floor. His voice dropped. "She's been trying to prove herself to you." His eyes jumped up to Dean's. "To us," he corrected, but too late.

She'd known Sam was on her side, that he believed in her. Sam had encouraged her, made her feel like part of the team. If she'd felt like she had to take on that werewolf alone in order to prove something, it was because of Dean. Because he'd tried too hard to protect her. Because he hadn't been willing to risk losing her.

And here they were.

Dean clenched his teeth and marched across the room, toward the door.

"Dean, wait," came Sam's voice behind him. "We don't know that's where she went."

Dean paused by the table, but the car keys weren't there anymore. He checked the chairs, the floor. "Where the hell are my keys?"

"Did she take them?"

"The car's still out there. I would've heard if she took it." Dean gripped the back of the chair, watching his knuckles turn white. He didn't have time to turn the room upside down searching for the damn keys. They'd wasted too much time already. He flung the chair to the floor and wrenched open the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To steal a car."

He strode into the parking lot, Sam at his heels.

"Dean—"

Dean stopped cold, but not because of Sam. There, on the ground at the back of the Impala, were his keys. He hadn't noticed them when he'd run past a couple minutes earlier. He scooped them up and held them out for Sam to see, his mind already racing through the possible explanations.

Sam's forehead furrowed. "So, she geared up, then dropped the keys? Maybe so we wouldn't hear the car?"

Dean pressed his lips together and shook his head. "No. She'd never leave the keys out like this." He gestured at Baby, black paint shining in the sun. "Someone could steal her." His hand closed around the keys, metal biting into his palm. "Somebody took her."

Sam's eyebrows jumped, then a deep V appeared between them. "How do we find her?"

Dean glanced around at the line of motel windows, the nearby road, the shops lining it. "It's broad daylight. Somebody saw something." He flipped through the photos on his phone and stopped on one of Ruthie, in the kitchen at the bunker. Her hair was pulled back in her usual ponytail, hands buried in a large bowl of ground beef, mixing a meatloaf. Her open-mouthed grin was only a smile in the photo, but Dean knew she'd been laughing at some dumb joke he'd made. He could still hear it, her apple pie laugh. His stomach seemed to shrink and harden. He tore his gaze from the picture and headed for the nearest motel door. "I got this one," he told Sam.

For once, he had a bit of good luck. A heavyset, suspicious-looking woman in a bathrobe answered the door. Dean showed her Ruthie's photo and asked if she'd seen her that morning. She jabbed at the screen with a thick finger. "Oh, yeah. I seen her. She was gettin somethin outta the trunk of that car there." She pointed at the Impala.

"Then what did she do?"

"Well, then she started talkin to some woman who come up behind her."

Dean forced himself to act calm. "And this woman, what did she look like?"

"Kinda tall and skinny. Long skirt. Gray hair. Couldn't say how old. Come to think of it, just the woman was talkin, not that girl."

"Then what?"

"Well, they just left. Your friend followed that lady right outta the parkin lot."

"Which way?"

The woman pointed west.

"Thanks." Dean turned to go, but she called after him.

"Is your friend a pothead?"

He faced the woman again. "Excuse me?"

She gave him a jowly, judgmental frown. "That girl looked baked. Little early for that, ain't it?"

He thanked the woman again, and yelled to his brother, who jogged over. "The witch has her." Sam went white, but Dean didn't stand around to talk about their feelings. He headed down the road in the direction the woman had pointed.

Showing her photo in occasional stops at stores yielded one of two results: either no one had noticed her, or they'd seen her walking west down the sidewalk, looking stoned. Two blocks went by, then three. They were nearing the edge of town, and Dean struggled to keep his cool. If she'd taken Ruthie into the woods, what then? How would they find her in time?

The final storefront was a barber shop. An elderly gentleman in an apron greeted them. Sam showed him the picture and asked about Ruthie—Dean couldn't stop darting glances out the window every other second.

The man adjusted his eyeglasses and inspected the photo. "Mm-hm. She went into the fort maybe half an hour ago, her and another lady. I noticed, because they're closed Sundays. Thought it was odd."

"The fort?" Sam asked.

The barber pointed through the large window, across the street and to the west. Sure enough, a solid-looking, two-story, wood building stood at the edge of town. Dean hadn't paid attention to it in his previous drives in and out of town.

"Been here 'bout a hundred and fifty years," the barber said. "Built during the Indian Wars, supposedly. It's a museum now."

Dean was already out the door. He heard Sam thanking the man, and the tinkling of the bell as the door swung open and shut again. They ran across the street, and found the large, wooden front door standing ajar, even though a "Closed" sign hung on it. Dean drew his gun, and Sam did the same. They stepped into the shadowy coolness of the fort. A hall ran left and right in front of them, and across it, a big set of double doors stood open. They silently crossed the hall and entered a large, dim, open space. Exhibits with old photographs and rifles lined the four walls inside, but there was no sign of anyone. The center of the room opened all the way up to the second floor ceiling. But along the four sides, through rough wooden railings, he could see doors on the second floor. Dean jerked his head up toward one of them, then toward the door they'd just come through. He'd take the second floor; Sam could take the first. Sam gave him a nod and disappeared.

Dean walked toward the far corner of the open area, gun still extended. He spotted a narrow staircase in the shadows, and took the steps two at a time. The first door he came to opened into a small room filled with taxidermied animals. The next was a restroom. Then he reached the corner of the building, and a very large, heavy-looking wooden door reinforced with two thin bars of hammered iron across the top and bottom. He tried the big iron handle, but it didn't budge. He banged on the wood with his fist. "Ruthie? You in there?"

"Dean?"

His knees went soft; he leaned against the door and took a deep breath. "Ruthie! You okay?"

"No, I don't think so." Ruthie's voice floated through the door, soft and dreamy.

"Is the witch still in there?"

"No. She left." She sounded half-asleep.

Her misty, drugged voice erased every trace of the relief he'd felt moments before. "Tell me what's happening."

Several tense seconds ticked by before she answered.

"I'm dying."


	8. Chapter 8

Ruthie's legs carried her in the witch's wake, down the sidewalk through town. No one seemed to notice anything strange, including Ruthie. She realized this woman was the witch they were hunting, but she felt no fear. She felt nothing at all.

The witch led her to the edge of town, to an old, square, wooden building. She held her hand out in front of the doorknob, muttered some words, then Ruthie heard a click. The witch opened the door and took Ruthie through a large room and up some stairs to another, even bigger door. She pulled a large iron key from her vest pocket and turned it in the lock. She pushed the door hard, and it slowly creaked open, revealing a corner room with one small window on each exterior wall. The windows were covered with bars. A low stone fireplace stood on the wall to their right. Beside it towered a bookshelf, crammed with old, faded volumes. In the center of the room were a small round table and two rough, wooden chairs. Old muskets and pistols hung on the walls, along with portraits of men in military uniforms.

"The fort is the nearest thing to a castle in town," the witch said. "I make do." She bustled over to the corner and picked up a sack. "Time to get into costume," she said.

Ruthie obeyed, stripping off her sweater and jeans. She pulled on the white blouse with short, puffy sleeves first, then the blue and white checked gingham jumper. Ankle-length blue socks came next. Finally, a pair of sparkly red shoes with bows on top.

"They fit," the witch observed with obvious delight. "I do have an eye for this." She motioned for Ruthie to sit in one of the chairs. "And now, the hair." The witch pulled out Ruthie's ponytail holder, then plucked a hair from her head. She set a small metal bowl on the table, sprinkled a powder into it, and muttered some strange words. She lowered the long, dark hair into the bowl, and reddish-brown sparks burst from it like fireworks. Twirling a finger in circles over the bowl, she carried it to Ruthie and poured its contents over her head.

Hot needles prickled over Ruthie's scalp. Her hair warmed her back and shoulders like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. She looked down, and watched as it lightened and curled, turning chestnut before her eyes. The witch stood behind her and sectioned off the top half of her hair, from just above her ears, and brushed it up to the top of her head. Ruthie felt the familiar twist of a ponytail holder being secured. A vague curiosity stirred.

"That spell. Is that how you changed the other girls' hair, too?"

The witch's hands froze on Ruthie's head. Then, she came around to face her, with a gratified expression. "You've seen my work? Impressive, isn't it?"

Ruthie nodded.

The witch pulled out a blue ribbon. "My kind have been vilified for generations. But even worse: we've been mocked. In all the stories, we're foiled in the end. Beaten, killed, humiliated." She deftly tied the ribbon into the top of Ruthie's hair. "This project is my own little way of setting things straight. Telling our version for once. I like to think that my sisters will hear of my work here, and be encouraged. Inspired." She stepped around the chair and faced Ruthie again, looking her over with those flinty eyes. "Very good," she said. Then she drew a small brown pouch from her vest pocket and walked to the bookshelf. She scaled the shelves as though she weighed no more than a cat. The shelves didn't so much as creak. She tucked the pouch into the back corner of the uppermost shelf, then clambered down to the floor again. Next she retrieved her sack, and pulled out an ornate, carved wooden hourglass filled with red sand.

"I'm using the movie version this time," she explained. "It suits my purposes. Along with a few touches of my own. Leaving your victim imprisoned, but with full control of her faculties?" She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "No real witch would be so foolish." She held the hourglass out over the table, then flipped it and set it down. The red sand ran through the narrow center and spilled into the bottom. "You're beginning to die now," she told Ruthie with a smile. "When the sand is finished, so is your life. Afterwards, I'll come for the 'ruby slippers,' just as my fictional sister planned." She put a hand on her hip and gazed out the window. "No one will ever see them but you and me, but I'll know they were here. I'll know I took them from your body. And won't the dullards at the police station puzzle over them! Or rather, their absence." She turned back to Ruthie. "Of course, I could have skipped them altogether, to the same effect, but I like to take an active role in these pageants of mine. And besides, the symbolism was simply too delicious to pass up."

The witch rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, and put a hand to her forehead. "Listen to me, giving my villain's monologue. If I'm not careful, the protagonist will arrive and stop me." Her gray eyes glinted and she gave a high-pitched cackle. She gathered Ruthie's clothes and phone and stuffed them in the sack, which she put back into the corner. "I'll fetch these when I return for the shoes." Then she went to the door, iron key in hand. She opened it, then faced Ruthie once more. "Can you feel it yet?" she asked, an eager light in her stony eyes.

Ruthie blinked slowly. Her body felt heavy, and yet as though it were emptying out somehow. As if the life was draining out of her—like sand through an hourglass. She gave a slow nod.

The witch smirked. "Goodbye, my pretty." The heavy door closed; the key scraped in the lock.

Ruthie was alone with the hourglass and its rapidly growing mound of fine red sand.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sam!"

The edge in Dean's yell sent Sam sprinting through the fort and up the narrow stairs. He found his brother crouched before a huge wooden door, maneuvering his lock-picking tools inside a giant iron keyhole. "Is Ruthie in there?" Sam asked.

Dean grunted, then threw the slim metal tools onto the floor. "Too damn old and heavy," he growled.

Sam had been trying to stay calm, for Dean's sake as much as Ruthie's, but anxiety was wearing his nerves raw. "Dean, is she…awake?" He couldn't make himself say "alive."

"Hi, Sam." Ruthie's voice—a thin, weakened version of it, anyway.

He exhaled and pressed his hand against the time-worn wood of the door. "Ruthie. Thank God." He glanced over at Dean, whose pinched face suggested he did not share Sam's relief. Sam lowered his voice to a whisper. "What's going on?"

Dean rubbed his forehead, and spoke with his jaw clenched. "She's really out of it. The witch left her in there, so whatever spell she used is already happening." Dean put a hand on the door and stared at it as if he were trying to see through it. "She already sounds worse, just since I got here." He faced Sam again, deep creases appearing between his eyes. "We gotta get in there."

Sam nodded at Dean, then leaned closer to the door and raised his voice. "Ruthie, is there a lock on your side of the door? A deadbolt?"

A long pause. "Mm-hm."

He and Dean exchanged hopeful looks. "That's great. Can you come over and unlock the door?"

A longer pause. "I don't think so."

Sam's fingers curled against the smooth wood. "Why not?"

"Because…I'm so heavy." Each word dragged along, as though speaking took enormous effort. "I feel like…I'm a hundred years old."

Dean's face dropped toward the ground. He scraped both hands into his hair, and held the back of his head as though he had a migraine.

"Hey, Ruthie," Sam coaxed, "would you please try to come unlock the door? For me? It's really important."

A long sigh floated to them from inside the room. "I can try."

"Atta girl, Ruthie. You can do it."

For several seconds, they heard nothing. Then a thud, and the clatter of wood striking wood.

Dean's head snapped up, and he gave the door his x-ray stare again. "Ruthie?"

"I…fell out of the chair." She sounded so frail.

"It's okay," Sam told her. "Can you get up?"

A hiss of breath, some rustling, a whimper. "Sam, I can't move."

"Okay. It's okay, Ruthie." His hand hardened into a fist against the door. He wanted to punch straight through it.

"Keep her talking," Dean ordered, striding away down the hall.

Sam had no idea what Dean's plan was. Maybe he'd seen some dynamite somewhere in the museum. He wouldn't put it past him. "Hey, Ruthie? Did you see where she put the hex bag?"

"Mm-hm. Top shelf."

"That's good, Ruthie." His next question stalled in his throat, arrested by the sound of glass smashing, and shards tinkling onto metal. He squinted down the dark hallway and saw Dean yank something out of a case on the wall. Dean marched back toward him, the knuckles of his right hand dripping blood, and without a word, raised an ax and slammed it into the door. He ripped it out, and brought it down again with a bang.

"You gonna stand there staring at me, or keep her awake?" Dean barked.

Sam dropped to the floor and scooted to the far right side of the door, away from the swinging ax. He scrambled to think of something to talk to her about. He spoke to the tiny space between the door and the floor, hoping she would hear him over the thudding of metal on wood. "Ruthie, were you really going to get breakfast this morning?"

 _Wham. Wham. Wham._

"We're not angry at you. We just want to understand what happened."

Another sigh. "I was going to find the werewolf." She sounded as though she were talking in her sleep.

A rumbling sound came from Dean's throat. He swung the ax again, and a chip of wood pelted Sam's cheek.

"We found the newspaper in your bag. Why did you hide it from us?" Sam fought to keep his voice steady and gentle.

 _Wham. Wham. Wham._

"I didn't want you to know. That would…ruin everything."

Ruin everything? He wasn't sure she was making sense. And how was it possible for her to sound even weaker than she had a second earlier? He looked up at Dean. A brief, tight-lipped return glance told him Dean had heard what Ruthie said, and that he'd noticed her dwindling voice, too. In the dim light, he was already glistening with sweat, throwing his whole body into the effort. Hoisting up, swinging down, up and down, over and over, like a piston.

The lighter-colored gouge in the wood grew, bit by agonizing bit. Dean gritted his teeth, and Sam noticed the quiet spaces between blows were growing longer.

Sam stood and put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "My turn. Catch your breath."

Dean surprised him by handing over the ax without argument. Sam raised the heavy implement over his head.

"Time is almost up."

She sounded so faint, he looked to Dean to see if he was hearing things. His brother stared wide-eyed at the door, a tendon straining from his neck.

"I'm sorry, Dean." Ruthie's feeble voice broke on Dean's name.

Sam knew he should be breaking down the door, knew he should be doing _something_ , but he couldn't seem to move. The look on Dean's face…

Dean hurled himself at the door; pounded it with both fists. "Damn it, Ruthie!" he roared. "You're stronger than this! You gotta fight it. I don't care if you have to army crawl. Get your ass over here and unlock this door!"

The silence of the next few moments reverberated with his yells. His bloody fist still pressed against the door; his chest heaved.

Sam stood frozen with the ax poised for a blow.

Thin, labored breathing wafted to them from the other side of the door. She spoke slowly, in barely more than a whisper. "You always act so angry when you're scared."

Dean's head drew back from the door. He was trembling. "Ruthie," he said in a low, shaky voice, "come unlock this door."

No response. Not even the strained breathing.

"Ruthie?"

Silence.

Sam nearly lost his balance as Dean jerked the ax out of his hands. A rough shove sent him stumbling into the wall. Showers of wood chips hailed down on him while his brother blasted away at the door like a madman.

The gouge quickly became a tunnel. Soon, the blade of the ax left a slice of light when Dean yanked it out. He hacked at the wood around that sliver of light, expanding it into a small hole.

Sam paced a tight line beside him, half crazed with the need to help, but there was only one ax. Another whack, and Dean tossed the ax aside. He stuck his right hand into the hole. He grunted and shoved, pushing it through up to the forearm. His arm twisted; he glared at the iron keyhole. Then, the scrape of iron against iron. A click.

Dean shoved the door open and dragged his arm back out through the hole, leaving the skin red and broken—not that he seemed to notice. The instant his hand was free, he charged into the room.

Sam pounded inside after him. Ruthie lay on her side, eyes closed, motionless, an overturned chair at her feet. One arm draped over her stomach, the other stretched out limp on the wood floor. Dean dropped to his knees beside her, took her shoulders, and turned her onto her back.

Sam put the scene together in an instant: the dress, the glittering red shoes—the hourglass on the table. Only the barest trace of sand remained in the top, sliding toward the narrow neck. He lunged at the hourglass and slammed it down onto its side before the last of the red grains could slip into the bottom.

He spun around and crouched down across from Dean, who was cupping Ruthie's face in his hands.

"Is she breathing?" Sam forced the words up from a chest on the verge of imploding.

"Can't tell," Dean rasped. "Find the hex bag."

A beat of hope. She'd told him where to find it. His eyes raced around the room—there. The only bookshelf. He couldn't see into the top shelf, but he could reach it. He stretched, felt around, and in the back corner, his fingers closed around a small cloth pouch.

"Lighter!" he yelled to Dean.

Dean fumbled in his pocket with a shaking hand, and clumsily threw him the lighter.

Sam flicked it open beneath the hex bag, and held it there until blue flames shot out. He tossed the bag into the fireplace and watched to make sure it burned.

From across the room, Dean's murmuring sounded like an incantation.

Sam approached, trembling now himself, and took a knee across from Dean. His brother held Ruthie's head in his hands again, bending over her, his watery eyes glued to her closed ones. "Come on," he breathed. "Please. Ruthie—"

Her lips quivered. Dean froze, and Sam held his breath.

Her eyelids opened. They might as well have been the gates of heaven, based on Dean's reaction. When her dark brandy eyes looked up at him, a tremor shook his whole body and a heavy breath rushed out of him, along with a weak noise from his throat. Then he gathered her up in his arms and held her, burying his face in her curly chestnut hair.

Sam sagged, let himself drop the rest of the way to the floor. He wiped a shaking hand across his face.

At first, Ruthie's arms hung limp behind her, but after a few moments she stirred, reached up, and wrapped them around Dean's neck. When she spoke, she sounded tired, but like Ruthie again.

"So it was all real?"

Sam stretched out a hand and rested it on her head. "It's okay now. We've got you."

A sharp intake of breath, not from Ruthie, but from the doorway. Sam whirled around. He caught a glimpse of a hard-eyed, gray-haired woman, just before she disappeared into the hallway with a swish of her skirt.

He launched himself after her, pulling his gun from his waistband before he was even fully upright. He sprinted into the hall, and took aim at her back. "Stop!"

She shouted something indecipherable over her shoulder and flung her open hand toward him. A blinding flash, then Sam slammed into an invisible wall and bounced backward, landing hard on his back. Little lights burst in front of his eyes. He rocked side to side, fighting to pull air back into his lungs. Footsteps sprinted across the first floor and out the door. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, then rolled over onto all fours. She was long gone by now. After he grabbed the railing and dragged himself up, he limped back to the corner room.

Dean was helping Ruthie to her feet. He looked up at Sam, an unspoken question on his face.

Sam shook his head. Then he crossed the room and pulled Ruthie into a tight hug. She squeezed him back, her face hidden against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, then took her shoulders and held her at arms' length. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear. She was okay. He gave her a little shake. "Don't scare us like that ever again."


	10. Chapter 10

The witch hurried west along the shoulder of the road. As soon as the trees thickened, she veered off into the woods, putting more distance between herself and the nasty surprise she'd found in the fort.

The indignity of it galled her. After all her careful preparations, after her first two glorious successes, to have this one ruined, with no warning…

And it was ruined, to be certain. For the first instant, she'd hoped the men were too late, that the girl was already dead. But then she'd seen her Dorothy's arms wrapped around the second man's neck, the one with the respectable haircut. By the end of the allotted time, she shouldn't have been able to wriggle a finger, let alone lift her arms. No, the spell was broken.

She frowned and balled up her bony fists. It was a vexing realization. They hadn't only turned the hourglass on its side. That would have kept her from dying, yes, but wouldn't have given her strength back. They must have found the hex bag and burned it. And if they knew to look for a hex bag, and knew to burn it…

Hunters.

Her mother had warned her about them ages ago, but she had never encountered one until today.

And she'd encountered not one, but two.

A thorn bush caught at her skirt. She ripped the fabric free and spat a curse, withering the branches and their tiny, early spring buds. The plant turned brown and curled in on itself.

She wasn't finished with her exhibitions. This was a production several years in the planning, and she'd be damned if these meddlers were going to spoil her hour of glory.

Perhaps a poor choice of words, since she _would_ be damned if the hunters dispatched her.

A presence jangled the alarm bells of her carefully honed subconscious. She stopped, fully alert. Something was near, watching her.

"Show yourself," she commanded.

A rustling, to her right. She turned to see a husky, bearded man emerge from behind a tree. Except he wasn't human; she was certain of that much. He was one of the mongrel breeds of monster that masqueraded as human when it suited them.

He approached slowly, his unremarkable brown eyes fixed on her, his hands raised, palms out. "I won't hurt you," he said. "I just want to talk."

"What are you?" she demanded. "Shapeshifter? Skinwalker?"

"Werewolf."

She wrinkled her nose. She had little use for such creatures. "What do you want?"

"To help."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why would I need your help?"

He raised his unkempt eyebrows. "Lady, do you have any idea who those boys were?"

She bristled at the implication that she was ignorant, as well as the realization that he'd been following her. "Of course I do. They're hunters."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. They're hunters. They're _the_ hunters. The Winchesters. The most feared hunters in the whole damn country."

She stiffened, disliking this conversation more by the second. "And?"

"And, I think we can help each other. I've been tracking those two for months now. I've got a group of like-minded individuals ready to take them down when I give the word. Today was supposed to be the day. I had everything ready. I set the bait, but you disrupted things when you took their pretty little assistant for your art project."

The witch drew herself up to her full height. "Are you accusing me of spoiling your plans? I do not consult with every vagrant monster before carrying out my own designs."

"Uh-huh. And how'd that work out for you today?"

She was tempted to curse him for his impudence. But she was far too old and too cautious for impetuous decisions. She would hear what else this beast had to say.

"The Winchesters were already hunting you before today," he continued. "You're why they're here in Reeds Spring. And now that you tried to kill their girl…" He raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle.

Her intuition told her he was telling the truth. Her first instinct was to run, to flee into the woods and never return. Let the werewolf and his monster cohorts face these infamous hunters whom she'd inadvertently crossed. Only the fervent desire to complete her series of works kept her feet planted. "What is your proposal, wolf?"

An unpleasant, yellow-toothed grin spread across his hairy face. "I'm glad you asked."

#

Mitchell Cross climbed another rung before turning his head to shout down to his partner. "Hey, Pete. Toss me that granola bar, will you?"

Fifteen feet below, Pete fished around in Mitchell's bag and pulled out the green-wrapped bar. He chucked it underhanded, and Mitchell caught it with a gloved hand. "Thanks." He tucked it into his pocket and resumed climbing.

It was his third time up this tower in a month. The darn thing kept having transmission issues. Customers didn't like it much when their cell phones started dropping calls, so back out to the tower the company would send him. Mitch was starting to suspect that the replacement parts they were supplying him were faulty. He knew his repairs weren't the problem.

Halfway up the tower, he paused and looked down at Pete, who was prepping the first batch of tools and supplies for Mitch. They'd hoist them up with cables once he reached the top. Sixty more feet. While he climbed, Mitchell thought about Andrea, and wondered what sort of wedding gown she'd picked out. She'd look beautiful no matter what. Sometimes he still felt like he needed to pinch himself, to make sure she'd really said yes, and it all wasn't a dream. Three more weeks until their wedding, then Grand Cayman. He couldn't wait.

He puffed with each upward push now. He sure hoped this would be his last time up this danged tower until the wedding. Although he had to admit, the view wasn't bad. The Ozarks spread out beneath him and out to the horizon, blanketed in the light green of early spring. Table Rock Lake sparkled in the distance to the east, surrounded by trees.

Just another few rungs now. But something from the corner of his eye set off alarm bells in his head. Two frayed strands poked out from his safety rope. What the heck? He checked all of his equipment daily. It had been fine that morning. He put a hand on his carabiner; it felt sturdy. Well, the rope would still hold him, but he'd rather not test it. And he'd have to get it replaced after this job.

Another, more careful step up—

Out of nowhere, a furious wind gust blasted him head-on. It knocked him backward. He barely managed to keep his feet on the rung, and all his weight now hung from the damaged rope. A hundred and ten feet below him, Pete shouted unintelligible words. Mitch reached for the nearest rung, stretched his arm and fingers, nearly had it.

The frayed rope twisted inches before his face. Another strand snapped. He watched in horror as another, then another broke, severed fibers swaying in the breeze like cobras.

Like dominos, the remaining strands gave way under the pressure of his weight. He made a final, desperate grab at the tower, but the rope broke in two. The tower lifted off into the air, in slow motion at first, then shooting up away from him like a rocket. His stomach lurched; the wind rushed up past him. Pete screamed.

Mitch didn't look down. He kept his eyes on the blue sky, on the puffy white clouds. He thought of Andrea, and wondered which cloud most resembled her wedding gown. The gown she wouldn't be wearing in three weeks. The gown she'd never wear.


	11. Chapter 11

"Dean, really, I'm fine."

He eyed Ruthie, stretched out on the sofa where he and Sam had insisted she rest, declining his third offer of an extra blanket. He couldn't be sure whether she really was comfortable, or if she was still mad at him for making her lie down when she wanted to fuss over his torn-up knuckles.

He inspected her face again, trying to determine whether she was hiding any lingering effects from the spell that had nearly killed her. Other than her hair being curled at the ends, and the wrong color, he couldn't find anything. She looked up at him with an exasperated half-smile and clear brown eyes.

He put his hands up in surrender. "Okay. You weren't fine an hour ago, that's all I'm saying."

Her gaze dropped to the cheap motel comforter he'd tucked around her. Her voice dropped, too. "I know." She picked at a loose thread. "I'm trying not to think about how things would have gone if you hadn't—"

"So don't." He didn't mean to sound so gruff. But he was talking to himself more than to her. He needed those thoughts to stop. He went to the mini fridge, pulled out two beers, and held one up in Ruthie's direction.

She shook her head. "Just some water, please?"

He replaced one beer and grabbed a little glass from beside the kitchenette sink. While he filled it, he wondered if Sam was getting anywhere at the police station—not because he was actually curious, but because it was something to think about besides the memory of finding Ruthie lifeless on the floor.

After they'd gotten her back to the motel, Sam had volunteered to go the police station and see if Chief Kenwood knew of anyone fitting the witch's description in town. Ruthie had been able to give a surprisingly detailed description, considering how dazed she'd seemed the whole time.

Dean did not offer to go along with Sam. Ruthie needed to rest, and he wasn't letting her out of his sight.

He returned to the couch and handed her the glass of water.

"Thank you," she said.

Damn, it was good to hear her real voice again.

He grabbed a chair from beside the little table and sat down backwards on it, facing her. "So, did she say anything that might help us find her? I mean, if you're okay to talk about it."

Ruthie finished a long drink, lowered the glass to her stomach, and nodded. "I'm okay." She narrowed her eyes, focused on a bare spot on the wall. "I can't remember her saying anything about who she is or where she lives. Just that she's not happy with how witches have been portrayed in stories and movies."

"So, your theory was spot on. You were right all along."

Her cheeks colored. "Guess so."

"One thing I don't get: she left your phone in the sack right there in the room. Why didn't you call us?"

Ruthie's eyebrows squished together, and she wrapped her hands tight around the glass. "I never even thought about it. The spell, I guess. I mean, I still knew who I was, and I even knew what was happening. It just never occurred to me that I could do anything about it. Everything was so foggy." Her face fell. "I should have fought harder."

Dean shook his head. "No. Don't do that to yourself."

She traced the rim of the glass with her fingertip. "Before you found me, while I was sitting there alone, I was thinking about my dad. How much I've missed him. And how I would get to see him soon." She swallowed. "I felt peaceful. Happy." She looked up at Dean. "Do you think that was because of the spell?"

He returned her gaze, and shook his head. "Doesn't take witchcraft to make us miss family."

She started pulling at the comforter's loose thread again. "The other night at the lumber mill got me wondering. Are ghosts always vengeful spirits? I mean, have you ever seen any that were benign, and just stayed behind because they wanted to?"

Dean watched her rolling the thread between her thumb and forefinger. She didn't lift her eyes to him. Probably because she already knew what he was going to say.

"No. If they stay, they've got unfinished business. And it's never good."

She stared down at her hands. The mini fridge made a rattling noise. Her voice dropped lower. "What about bringing someone back, even just temporarily? Ever seen a spell for that?"

He couldn't blame her for asking. He'd gone way beyond simple spells the times he'd lost Sam. But when it came to bringing someone back, there was always a price. Usually, it ended up being a lot higher than advertised.

He stayed quiet, waiting until she raised her eyes to his. "Ruthie. I know it's hard. I've been there. But you have to let him go."

Her chin quivered, but she held his gaze. After several silent moments, a sad smile spread across her face. "Guess I'll just have to wait a little longer."

Another quiet minute passed. Dean looked down at his beer bottle, turning it in his hand. "Did she know you were with us? The witch?" He'd all but convinced himself that Ruthie had been targeted as a warning to him and Sam.

Ruthie frowned. "No, I don't think so. She never mentioned you. And Sam said she looked really shocked when she saw you there."

He considered this. Maybe she was right. It was a very small town.

Now he was coming to the questions he most needed to ask. And he needed to ask them while Sam wasn't here to give him disapproving side-glares. "I know today has been a doozy, and I'm not looking to start a fight, okay? But I gotta ask. What the hell were you thinking, going after that werewolf alone?"

Her whole face flushed this time. She seemed to take an intense interest in her water glass.

Now that she was here, safe with him, he was tempted to throttle her for doing something so stupid and reckless. For scaring him so bad. But he could hear Sam's voice in his head, telling him to try and see things from her perspective.

Damn. Apparently it didn't matter whether Sam was there in the room or not. He was living rent-free in Dean's head.

Dean sighed and leaned toward her as much as the back of the chair would let him. "Look, I know you've been trying to prove yourself. Trying to be part of the team. And I know I haven't exactly been coach of the year. Sam's right. I promised to keep you safe, but I can't keep you locked up forever."

Her gaze lifted from the glass to his face, a new hope brightening her eyes.

He held up a hand. "But you can't go running off on solo missions either. Some stuff, you're just not ready for yet. Sam and me, we're gonna find that werewolf, and we're gonna kill it."

Her whole expression changed. The spark of hope faded as quickly as it had appeared. Her chin dropped; her shoulders slumped.

What the hell? Did Sam have her convinced she could already take on a pureblood werewolf singlehanded? Maybe she wasn't as smart as he thought. Her determination to get herself killed, especially after this morning, sent his blood pressure climbing. He had to work hard to keep the edge off his voice. "So, what was your plan? What were you going to do if you found it?"

She shifted her legs beneath the comforter and gave a one-sided shrug. "Nothing. I was just scoping it out."

His BS detector wailed like a siren. "Ruthie."

She held out her empty hand in a gesture of innocence. "What?"

"Then what were you getting out of the trunk?"

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. "I…was looking for binoculars."

Wow. She was a really crappy liar. Even Sam wouldn't have bought it. He decided to play along anyway. "So you were going to 'scope it out.' Then what?"

"Then I was going to come back and tell you where it was."

He squinted at her. "Uh-huh. Okay, moving on. At the fort, when Sam asked why you hid the newspaper from us, you said you didn't want us to find out. That it would 'ruin everything.' What did you mean?"

Her eyelids fluttered for a split second. "I don't know. Are you sure I said that?"

Considering he'd believed they might be her dying words, yeah, he was pretty damn sure. He just waited.

She gave him a baffled look. "I have no idea. Must have been the spell, making me say stuff that doesn't make sense."

Dean stared at her through narrowed eyes, searching her face for some clue why she was lying to him. If it was just that she didn't want them to know she was going to "scope out" the wolf, why not say so? Not that he bought that story in the first place. All he knew was that she was flustered, and she wasn't being straight with him. He didn't like it.

He stood and held out his hand for her empty glass. She handed it over with a sheepish look. He took it to the sink, and set down his beer bottle on the counter. Then he turned to face her, but didn't sit down again. "So then why did you—"

"Jeez, Dean!" She threw her hands out to the sides, then crossed her arms. "What is this, the Inquisition?"

Just behind her angry mask, he spotted a flicker of fear.

He put his hands up. "Okay. Okay. Sorry." He didn't want to fight with her. Not now. Not today. Whatever was going on with her, whatever she was afraid of, he'd have to figure it out once she was feeling less defensive. "You don't have to tell me. Okay? You must have had your reasons. All I'm trying to do… I just don't want…"

Damn it. The scene from this morning was back, forcing its way to the front of his mind. His heart thumped harder at the memory of the swinging ax and flying woods chips, endless impacts jarring his hands and shoulders, adrenaline and desperation driving him beyond the usual limits of his strength. His whole back ached from the exertion. All he could see was her limp body, lying on the floor. His throat tightened. He gripped the edge of the counter behind him. "I don't want anything like today to ever happen again." His tight throat clamped down on his voice, made it come out scratchy. He had to force the rest out. "Please, don't make me go through that again."

Her mask cracked, splintered, fell apart. Beneath it, her pretty face contorted with guilt and compassion. "Dean—" A choked whisper. "I'm sorry." Her eyes filled; her chin quivered.

Hell with it. In three strides, he was at her side, on one knee. He pulled her in to his chest, one arm around her back, the other hand holding her head against his shoulder. She buried her face in his neck. He stroked her hair while she pulled in breath after shuddering breath. He held her until her body slowly relaxed.

Dean loosened his hold and pulled back just enough to look at her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face.

"It's okay." He searched her eyes again, now that the mask had fallen away. He wanted to ask her for the truth, about why she'd lied to him, about what she'd meant at the fort, but he wasn't willing to spoil this moment. He settled for, "You sure you're okay?"

She nodded, looking up at him from brown eyes framed by wet lashes. The spokes of gold shimmered through her tears. She gazed into his eyes like she had back at her cabin. That look had once made him squirm. He'd been hiding everything he was from her then. But not anymore. Not today. He could look into her dark eyes, unflinching, for hours.

Her gaze slipped down to his mouth, and her lips parted. She seemed to be holding her breath.

He didn't think. This felt too right to waste time thinking. He leaned slowly toward her, focused on that full bottom lip, the upper one that tugged up just a tiny bit in the center. She tilted her chin up to him, closed her eyes—

A metallic click, and the door opened.

They jerked apart. Dean yanked his hand away from her head so fast, her hair whooshed after it before falling back to her shoulder. He put one hand on his knee and rubbed the back of his neck with the other.

"Kenwood says she must be an out-of-towner…" Sam trailed off and froze mid-step, looking back and forth between Dean and Ruthie with wide eyes. A plastic bag swung from his immobile hand.

Dean made an over-the-top impatient face, as though Sam was acting awkward for no reason. "And?"

Sam swallowed, tore his gaze from the two of them, and made his way to the table, where he set the bag down. "Um, he doesn't know anybody like that in town. So, uh, she's probably staying in a motel or B&B. Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow things down too much."

Dean stood and walked to the counter to retrieve his beer, acting like everything was totally normal. "Well, at least we know what she looks like now. We can start knocking on doors tomorrow."

Sam nodded. He couldn't seem to decide whether he should sit down or keep standing or turn around and leave again. He made a jerky grab for the bag on the table. "Uh, Ruthie, I got you some hair dye. Hope it's the right color."

She sat up straighter, a relieved smile on her face. "Thank you." She held up a section of chestnut hair. "This is creeping me out."

She glanced over at Dean. Their eyes met for less than half a second before they each looked away.


	12. Chapter 12

Ruthie pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack. At least snickerdoodles were one thing she hadn't yet managed to screw up. It was stupid, but the cookies were a small way for her to try and make it up to the boys for putting them through yesterday. Besides, it wasn't like she had much else to do, since Dean and Sam had agreed she wasn't allowed to leave the motel for the rest of the trip.

She hadn't put up much of a fight. Dean's anger could always get a defensive rise out of her, but the disappointment in Sam's eyes nearly broke her. He'd stood up for her so many times, and she'd betrayed his trust with her stunt.

They both believed she'd done it because she was trying to prove herself, like she thought she was some big shot hunter now. She hadn't corrected them.

Asking to come with them after the werewolf left that threat on her fridge was one thing. They had all understood it was a temporary arrangement, and besides, Dean owed her. But what she wanted now went far beyond the deal they'd made.

She knew they cared for her; that wasn't the issue. But asking two bachelors to essentially adopt her, to make her part of their family, to let her stay with them forever… She couldn't do it. She wouldn't put them in that position. It was simply too much to ask. And if she was honest with herself, she was afraid of what their answer might be. She'd imagined it so many times: the brothers exchanging awkward looks, avoiding eye contact with her. Dean clearing his throat. Sam trying to let her down gently. Just thinking about it made her face burn, her breath hitch in her throat. She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

Once they killed the werewolf, where would she have them take her? She had nowhere to go. She had no one else.

She didn't want anyone else.

"So, are those the kind of cookies you eat, or do you just stare at them all day?"

Dean's voice brought her back to the present. She opened a drawer and fished around for a spatula. "You can't rush perfection, Winchester. They need to cool."

He and Sam sat at the little table, where they'd been discussing their next steps. Sam ran a hand over his hair. "How many more motels and B&Bs do we have left to check?"

Dean consulted his laptop, then pushed it away. "More than we have time for."

Sam sighed. "And she might not even be here anymore. She may have gotten spooked and moved on."

"I still say we should be hunting that werewolf instead."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean, we know. You've only mentioned it a couple dozen times."

"And I'll keep saying it until you get it through your dense skull."

Sam leaned toward Dean and raised his voice. "That witch tried to kill Ruthie."

Dean's voice rose to meet his brother's. "And that wolf tried to kill all three of us. Do you even remember why Ruthie's stuck with us in the first place?"

She opened her mouth to object to his description of her situation, but Sam beat her.

"Yeah, Dean, I remember it more or less vowed revenge, then dropped off the grid for months. And now, suddenly a werewolf practically hangs an 'Open for Business' sign in the podunk town we happen to be in. It's baiting us, which means it's a trap."

Dean glowered at Sam. "Of course it's a trap. You think I don't know that?"

"So, what, you want to just walk into it? Is that your plan?"

Ruthie hurried to grab two little plates from the cabinet. Cooled or not, it was time for cookies. Using the spatula, she slid two big, soft cookies onto each plate and set one down in front of each of them. "Thanks," they said in unison, then continued bickering. She sat on the couch across from them since there were only two chairs.

"I'm saying that wolf is the bigger threat," Dean said, and took a big bite of snickerdoodle. "And so it should be our…" He went nearly cross-eyed looking down in awe at the cookie in his hand. "Holy crap. This is amazing." He rounded on Ruthie. "Why haven't you ever made these before?"

She held back a gratified smile. "You always want pie."

"He means thank you," Sam said. "They're really good, Ruthie."

She decided to take advantage of the pause in their debate. "I think we should focus on the witch."

Sam looked pleased, while Dean's face went stony. But it wasn't only displeasure she saw there; it was suspicion. "And why is that?" he asked, his tone reinforcing his expression.

She shrank back into the couch and pulled her knees up to her chest. "Well, it's just that Sam's right. It has to be a trap. I don't think we should—you should—go after the werewolf until you know what you're up against."

He squinted at her, as though trying to decide whether every word she'd just said was baloney.

He'd never looked at her like that before. Her heart constricted, like it was being squeezed in a vise. Near-kiss notwithstanding, she'd broken his trust. She cursed herself for her rash decision to hide the paper, to go after the werewolf alone. Now the damage was done. Trust took time to rebuild.

And time with him was something she didn't have much of, now that he had the wolf in his sights.

She lurched up from the couch and went back to the kitchenette, keeping her back to the table.

"Ruthie? You okay?" Concern tinged Sam's voice.

"Yeah." She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. "Just decided I want a cookie."

She took her time getting a plate, selecting a cookie, finding a napkin, but still wasn't ready to face them. They'd been very quiet since she'd gotten up. "Anybody want some milk?" she asked.

"Not me."

"I'm good."

She pulled the quart of two percent out of the mini fridge and got a little glass. She was about to pour when her phone chimed from the end table by the couch. A text.

Sam and Dean both looked up from their cookies. They were the only ones who ever texted her. She left the milk and went to see who it was. After checking the screen, she told them, "It's Officer Dixon."

Dean's face darkened. "You gave him your number?"

She bit back a snarky reply. "Agent Griffin gave him her number, so he could contact her with any developments in the case." She flicked a stray section of hair—now back to dark and straight—behind her shoulder. "I called him this morning, actually, while you guys were out checking the motels."

Dean's eyes flashed beneath lowered brows.

She hurried on. "I told him we were working a lead and gave him the witch's description. Asked him to spread the word and keep an eye out. I'm trying not to be totally useless." She held up her phone. "And he's got something." She glanced at the screen again. "Another officer saw a woman fitting her description. He noticed her because she was a few miles outside town, walking alongside the road, heading east."

"Back into town?" Sam asked.

Ruthie nodded. "He asked if she needed a ride, but she said no."

"Did he ask where she was staying?" Dean asked, without much hope in his voice.

She scrolled through the long text message. "No, but he says this was only about twenty minutes ago. If she had a few miles to go to get to town, she could still be out there on the road. Oh, listen to this: she was carrying a cloth bag he thought looked like the ones they give out at the Bluebird Bed and Breakfast."

Dean looked over at Sam, who had already connected the dots.

"Where Cara Young was staying," Sam said. "The first victim."

"I'll text you both his number," Ruthie said. "You can get updates from him directly."

Dean was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket and keys. "I'll drop you at the Bluebird on the way," he told Sam. "If I miss her, you can roll out the welcome wagon."

She selected Dixon's contact page and sent out the text. Sam's phone gave a quiet chirp, but Dean's sang, "Chris-TEE-na," and cut off before the "Ohh, waah, ohhhhh, yeah."

He stiffened, then turned long-suffering green eyes on her. "Really? Texts, too?"

She smiled for the first time that day.

Sam and Dean each grabbed their remaining cookies and started for the door. Sam stepped through the doorway. With one hand still on the doorknob, Dean turned and jabbed a finger toward her. "You stay here. We clear?"

She nodded meekly. She deserved it.

"Be careful," she called. But he was already gone.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean popped the trunk and grabbed the box of witch-killing bullets. "I can't believe you let her mess with my phone."

Sam paused from filling his own magazine and put his hands up. "I had nothing to do with it." He topped it off with a final bullet. "Anyway, you love it."

"Excuse me?" Dean shut the trunk and they climbed in.

"If you hated it so much, you would have learned how to change your ringtone by now."

Dean glanced sideways at his brother. Sam might be right, but Dean didn't have to admit it. "Whatever, man. I got more important things to do than screw around with my phone."

Sam just smirked.

Dean wished he hadn't brought it up. He did have something else he wanted to run by Sam, though. "Hey, has Ruthie seemed weird to you since yesterday?"

Sam didn't look at him. "You mean since I walked in on…whatever I walked in on?"

"Okay, first of all, you didn't walk in on anything. And no, I'm talking about the werewolf stuff."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know. I asked her about why she went after it, and the stuff she said at the fort. She wouldn't be straight with me. She got all defensive."

"Well, you tend to have that effect on people."

Dean took his eyes off the road long enough to scowl at Sam. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. What do you mean, she wouldn't be straight with you?"

"I mean she was lying to me." Eyes back on the road, Dean squeezed the wheel tighter at the memory. "She looked me in the eye and lied to me."

Sam looked skeptical. "Why would she lie?"

"Why does anybody lie? People have secrets. Cas has lied to us, we've lied to him, we've lied to each other. That werewolf shows up in town, and she tries to hide it from us. Tries to go find it on her own. And then, remember what she said? That if we found out about it, it would 'ruin everything?' What was that supposed to mean?"

Sam shifted in his seat. "I don't know. Did you ask her?"

"Yeah. She acted like she didn't remember saying it."

Sam caught at that like a lifeline. "Maybe she doesn't. She was under a curse at the time."

Dean shook his head. "I know her. She was lying. You should've seen her face. She was scared."

Sam straightened. "Scared? Of what?"

Dean tossed a hand in the air. "Who knows? My questions, seemed like. And again today, not wanting us to hunt that wolf." He gripped the steering wheel again. "I'm telling you, Sammy, there's something weird going on with her."

Sam watched out the windshield for a while. "Did you ever think maybe she's just worried about you?"

"Me? Why?"

"Like she said. She doesn't want you walking into a trap, unprepared."

"Oh, but it's okay for her to?" Dean snapped.

"Of course not." Sam blew an irritated breath out through his nose. "All I'm saying is, I'm not blind, Dean."

Dean shot a sideways glance at him. "What?"

"And I want you to know, I'm okay with it. Happy about it, actually."

The back of Dean's neck turned uncomfortably hot. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"She's good for you, Dean. You're good for each other."

Sam's smile and matter-of-fact tone were about to send him through the roof. Dean raised his voice. "I told you, nothing happened."

Sam turned his gaze back to the road, still smiling. "Okay."

"Why do I even talk to you?" Dean punched the radio dial and cranked it up. Idiot. What did he know? Sam was like an old woman, trying to play matchmaker because he'd seen Dean and Ruthie sitting close together. And what had he said? That he was happy about it? For an instant, Dean pictured himself and Ruthie at the bunker, coming out of his room together in the mornings, meeting Sam in the kitchen for breakfast. Sam being happy for him.

He shoved the image aside. Ruthie deserved better. She deserved better than this life, even if she had been lying to him. He'd only come so close to kissing her because he'd almost lost her, and because she'd been crying. It was a mistake. One he wouldn't make again.

A minute later, he pulled up in front of the Bluebird and let Sam out. The setting sun cast long shadows onto the robin's-egg-blue cottage. He drove away, still scowling at Sam in the rearview.

He turned off the radio when he reached the west end of town. Baby's engine rumbled as he slowed, keeping a sharp eye on the sides of the road. He passed the barber shop and the fort, and followed the road out of town. He drove through a tunnel of thick trees, occasionally opening onto rolling hills. For the first mile, he had to squint and hold a hand over his eyes, until the sun sank beneath the treetops. Another mile rolled by, and still no sign of her, or anyone else. Dean peered into the trees on either side of the road, in case she slipped into the woods at the sound of the approaching car. Three miles…four miles. Damn. Either she wasn't out here, or she was hidden in the forest. Or he had missed her somehow, and she was already back in town. Wherever she was, it was getting too dark too keep up his search.

He turned the car around, and pulled his phone out of his pocket to call Sam.

"Chris-TEE-na."

Alone in the Impala, he didn't have to hide his smirk. He glanced down and skimmed Ruthie's text.

 _Sam said he was going out to Snow White's cabin to follow a lead. Now he's not answering his phone. I have a bad feeling. Please go check on him._

Dean frowned. What lead? He must have heard or seen something at the Bluebird.

 _"I have a bad feeling."_

Coming from Ruthie, those words had the power to twist his stomach into a triple knot. He stepped on the gas.

Five minutes later, he guided the Impala down the rough dirt road into the little parking lot, and killed the engine. No lights were on in the Sales Office cabin. He pulled the .45 from his waistband and switched out the magazine of witch-killing bullets for one loaded with silver, just to be safe. Silver would knock a witch on her ass, and it was what you needed for werewolves, too. He chambered a round before he stepped out. The night vibrated with cicada songs, making it tough to listen for other noises. He headed left, and stepped onto the trail, making his way cautiously through the woods. His ears strained for the sounds of footsteps, twigs snapping, bushes rustling, but he heard nothing except insects.

Until he rounded the wide curve leading to the cabin. Muffled noises came from up ahead: a low male voice, thuds, grunts. He quickened his pace, and tightened his grip on his gun. The path straightened out; he spotted the cabin twenty yards ahead. A bare light bulb hung from a cord in the left window, illuminating four people inside. A husky, brown-haired man stood with his back to Dean. Facing him, two big, tough-looking guys held someone by the arms. The husky man blocked Dean's view of the captive. Dean watched as he drew back his meaty arm and punched the hidden man in the stomach. The two goons struggled to keep the victim upright.

Dean crept closer, the cicadas now drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears.

The ringleader stepped aside, rubbing his knuckles. His victim hung by the arms, doubled over and wheezing, held up by the two henchmen. At first, hair obscured his face, but then he straightened up a little and shook it back. A nasty cut slashed across one cheekbone, and blood trickled from his nose.

Sam.

The cool night air was no match for the heat burning through Dean's body. He clenched his teeth and moved silently toward the cabin, gun trained on the man who'd hit his brother. He wasn't close enough yet to take the shot.

The husky guy turned and came to the window, peering out into the darkness. Dean froze. It was the werewolf. He'd only seen it for an instant at Ruthie's cabin, but he was sure. Same build, same beard, same look of hatred in its eyes. Dean's mind raced, trying to figure out why Sam was here, how it had tracked him. Or had Sam tracked the wolf? Why was it here, at the scene of one of the witch's murders?

But none of that mattered. Not until he got Sam out of there.

The werewolf still stood at the window, as though it were looking for something. This would be the perfect moment to take his shot, but he wasn't close enough. The darkness hid him for now, but if he moved, the wolf's sharp eyes would notice. His best chance to help Sam was to keep the element of surprise. Even though he hated it, he kept still.

Finally, it turned back toward Sam. The werewolf stepped right over to him and hit him hard across the face, wrenching it to one side. The wolf backhanded him, knocking his head to the other shoulder. Sam's face twisted in pain; he spat blood onto the floor.

It took all Dean's willpower to continue making his quick, quiet progress toward the cabin rather than charging the door. He had to assume the other two were werewolves, too, and all three had keen senses. He'd stay quiet just a little longer. Just long enough to get close. Then he'd kill all three sons of bitches.

His phone gave a muffled ring from his pocket. Damn it all. He'd forgotten to silence it. He froze, but no one in the cabin seemed to have heard. He took a quick sidestep off the path and behind a big tree to pull it out and turn it off. He couldn't risk them hearing it, or seeing the glow of the screen.

He glanced down as he switched the volume off. It said Sam Calling.

What the hell?

He peered around the tree into the cabin, but none of the werewolves had phones in their hands. He hid himself again, slid Answer, put the phone to his ear, and waited.

"Dean?"

It sounded like Sam.

"Who the hell is this?" Dean growled, as quietly as possible.

"Dean, it's me. Thank God you're okay. Ruthie said—"

"Like hell it is. How'd you get Sam's phone?" His next thought made his heart lurch in his chest. How did they know about Ruthie?

The Sam-like voice sharpened with impatience and concern. "Dean, it's _me_. What's going on? Are you at the cabin?"

It definitely sounded like Sam. Dean couldn't make sense of any of this. He leaned around the tree again, and looked through the window. There was Sam, right there, taking another blow to the face. This time, he gave a yell of pain.

Dean clutched his head with his free hand. Was any of this even real? Had the witch already caught him in some spell to slowly drive him insane?

The werewolf raised his punching hand to shake it out, and knocked the dangling light bulb. It swung crazily back and forth.

Light flashed across Sam's face, and for just an instant, his irises flared white.

Dean blinked hard. The bulb swung past Sam's face again. Again, his eyes flickered white in the glare.

Shapeshifter.

Sam wasn't here. He'd never been here.

"Dean, I'm coming to get you, okay?"

"Wait." Dean lowered his voice further and backed away from the tree, holding the phone with one hand and extending his .45 with the other. His mind flashed over the implications of what he'd just seen, of what had led him here. "Sam, what did Ruthie tell you?"

"She said you went out to Snow White's cabin, following a lead, and stopped answering your phone. She said she had a bad feeling."

Ice water trickled through Dean's veins. "It's a trap." He backed down the trail, eyes fixed on the cabin door.

"What?"

"The werewolf is here, with a shifter who's you. And two others." He stepped faster down the dirt path, his mind reeling. What the hell was going on? That wolf had been trying to bait him into the cabin, beating up fake Sam. It was watching for him through the window. It knew he was coming. Why would Ruthie lie to both of them like this? Why would she send them here, into an ambush?

Maybe Ruthie hadn't been the one who sent it.

Now he was the one with a bad feeling. A really, really bad feeling.

"I'm coming, Dean."

A rustle behind him sent Dean whirling around. A creature with a rotten face rushed at him, arms extended. A long spike protruded from one wrist. Dean fired into its chest, and it dropped.

"Dean? What was that?"

That was him losing the element of surprise—in this case, the surprise of Dean Winchester running from a fight. He sprinted for the parking lot. He nearly dropped his phone, but Sam was on his way. Something told Dean to keep him on the line. "Wraith."

"Did you say 'wraith?'" Sam sounded as confused as Dean felt.

Another shape leaped from the forest into his path. She bared a mouthful of pointed teeth, and came at him in a blur. Dean fired a shot into her open mouth; her head snapped back. She stumbled, and he dodged her without breaking stride.

"Dean!"

"Vampire," Dean shouted. Staying quiet was pointless; the forest still rang with his second shot. He raced around the long bend, straining his eyes for the parking lot. He knew he'd only slowed the vamp down, and God only knew what else was coming for him.

Footsteps pounded behind him. He tossed a glance over his shoulder.

Holy hell.

He ran faster than he ever had. He ran for his life.


	14. Chapter 14

At least ten monsters charged down the trail behind Dean, the werewolf leading the way. It had transformed; Dean had caught a glimpse of glowing yellow eyes and sharp fangs. At least two other wolves added their snarls to his. The vamp he'd shot had joined them, along with others. What the hell was happening?

"Dean, I'm almost there."

"No! It's an ambush!" he shouted as he ran. "Werewolves, rugaru…" He spotted the Impala up ahead, and fired a shot over his shoulder without looking. A yelp and a thud told him he'd hit something. He stuffed the phone into his jacket pocket and fumbled for the keys, without slowing down. If he could hold them off long enough to get in—

Something slammed into him from behind. He crashed onto the dirt path, a heavy body on top of him. He twisted his gun arm free and fired point blank into its chest. The body went limp, turning to dead weight. Dean struggled to turn over, to see his attackers, but powerful hands gripped his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Fingers like metal clamped down on his right wrist. He fired a wild shot before the gun was wrenched out of his grasp. The monsters holding him spun him around, then the werewolf was right in front of him, a leering grin on its doglike face. Without a word, it drove a fist into his gut.

Dean doubled over with a grunt. His lungs felt like popped balloons. Wheezing, he steeled himself for more.

From his pocket came Sam's anxious voice. "Dean? Dean!"

The wolf slipped its hairy hand into Dean's pocket, pulled out the phone, and held it up to its ear. "Sorry, Sammy," it said. "Dean can't talk right now." It hung up, and slid the phone back into Dean's jacket.

A claw caught under his chin and tugged his face upward. Smug yellow eyes peered into his, then turned up to the moonlit sky. "Such a nice night." It drew a long breath, then flicked a claw toward a werewolf, a vampire, and what looked like a human. "You three, hang back and greet our next guest." Then it beckoned to Dean. "Walk with me." It turned back toward the cabin, and the two creatures on either side of Dean dragged him along behind it.

He struggled to get his feet back under him; struggled to pull a breath into his flattened lungs. Even so, his hunter's instincts never paused. He took note of every monster in the group. There was the pack leader, the werewolf from Idaho. The one holding his right arm was a red-haired wolf. The one on his left looked human. It had stuffed Dean's .45 into its waistband; Dean spotted the pearly grip sticking out above the back of its jeans. Since the others were in their monster forms, he assumed it was a ghoul. A vampire walked beside the ghoul, fangs bared. He spotted the injured vampire too, rubbing the back of her head and glaring at him. Off to the side, the pale, wormy-skinned, black-eyed rugaru lurked along the edge of the trail. Six in this group. Three back near the parking lot, waiting for Sam. And the shapeshifter was still around somewhere. So, he'd killed at least two and injured two others, but he was still up against at least ten monsters—at least five different types of them.

And he had no weapon.

He'd never seen anything like it. Monsters, fighting together like this. He didn't wonder long what had gotten them to play nice with each other. There was nothing like a common enemy to bring people—or monsters—together. It was pretty damn effective. He'd brought a gun to a gun-machete-flamethrower fight.

And Sam was about to walk right into it.

"I'm so glad you got my invitation," the werewolf said, then turned around and walked backwards in order to face Dean. "It's nice having an assistant, isn't it? You inspired me. Hope you don't mind me borrowing yours."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the wolf to hide his confusion. It had to be talking about Ruthie and the text. But it was making it sound like Ruthie was working for the werewolf. And that was impossible. It must have sent some of its soldiers to the motel; they must have forced her to do it. He shouldn't have left her alone. He ground his teeth and glared at the werewolf's smug face.

"She played her part beautifully, don't you think?" it asked. "I wasn't sure she'd be able to keep our secret. Did you ever suspect?"

Dean's mouth went dry. Only an hour or two ago, he'd been telling Sam about Ruthie lying to him, acting sketchy. But this? "You're lying." His voice came out hoarse.

The wolf let out a bark of laughter, then stuck its face an inch front of Dean's. Its foul breath warmed his nose, and nausea turned his stomach. "You took everything from me," it growled in a low, chilling voice. "I swore to myself that I'd take everything from you. _Everything._ And I have." It straightened up and its voice returned to normal. "Well, once Sam gets here, then I will have." It gave him a wolfish grin. "And he'll be here any minute, because he got his invitation, too."

The werewolf started toward the cabin again. Sharp claws dug into Dean's shoulders and hauled him forward. "I know what you're thinking," the werewolf went on, before switching to a high-pitched, whiny tone. "She wouldn't. She couldn't." A pause, and it went back to its normal voice. "But everyone has a price."

 _No._ The werewolf had to be lying. Ruthie would never betray him, betray Sam.

"Don't be too mad at her, Dean. You know she always was a daddy's girl. I made her an offer she couldn't refuse."

Fear gripped him tighter than the hands clamped around his shoulders. He wanted to cover his ears; he didn't want to hear any more.

"She sure misses him. Not much she wouldn't do to see him again just one more time. And it so happens, I know someone who can arrange a meeting."

A sharp pain knifed into Dean's chest. He almost looked down to see what had stabbed him. His current, dire situation faded into background noise. Ruthie had found a way to bring her dad back. The price was Dean's life. Sam's life. And she'd been willing to pay it.

The knife dug deeper into Dean's chest and twisted.

"My friends," the werewolf said, arms spread wide, "this is it! Months of planning and watching and working have led us to tonight. Didn't I promise you? We've had a couple of casualties, yes, but they knew the risk. They knew the reward."

Light glowed from the two little windows of the cabin up ahead. The wolf's tone turned businesslike. "Once we get him inside, we all get a piece, like we agreed. But keep him alive until the brother gets here." Its eyed glinted at Dean. "I want them to watch each other dying. I want them to hear it." It gazed down at Dean's chest. "And remember: I get the hearts."

Dean had always figured he'd die violently. Hunters could pretty much bank on it. But being eaten alive didn't make his top ten list of ways to go. He'd been torn apart by hellhounds once. Being a buffet for man-eating monsters didn't sound any better. As they dragged him closer to the cabin, he scrambled to think of a plan, something, anything to give him a chance against six of them.

Nothing came to mind.

Didn't matter. He'd go down fighting.

He clenched his fists, muscles tensed, planted his feet—

 _Bang!_

A report echoed through the woods from the direction of the parking lot.

Sam.

The werewolf paused, looked back. The group stopped.

 _Bang! Bang!_

A distant howl, a muffled yell, vicious snarling.

The wolf's confident, gloating expression hardened. It jerked its chin toward the shots. The three monsters not holding Dean—the two vamps and the rugaru—took off back up the trail toward the sounds of fighting.

Toward Sam.

Adrenaline surged through Dean's body. With the red-haired werewolf and the ghoul still gripping his shoulders, Dean leaped up and kicked the lead werewolf in the chest with both feet. He caught it off guard, sending it sprawling backwards; its head cracked against the bottom porch step.

The ghoul to his left wobbled, trying to keep its balance. Dean smashed his head into its face; it lost its grip on his shoulder. As it staggered back, he yanked his gun, left-handed, from its waistband. In an instant, he swung it right and pressed the barrel to the chest of the red-haired werewolf. Its open, snarling mouth sprayed spittle on his cheek as he fired into its heart. It dropped, dead before it hit the ground.

It had all taken less than three seconds.

The ghoul grabbed him from behind and clamped its teeth down on the back of his neck. Dean yelled and elbowed it hard in the stomach. Fire raged through his neck as the ghoul's jaws tore away. Dean spun and punched it square in the face, knocking it to the ground.

He pivoted again, gun aimed toward the spot where the husky werewolf had fallen, but it had vanished. He scanned the treeline, the cabin windows. No sign of it.

 _Bang!_

Another shot from behind him on the trail.

The ghoul jumped up and came at him again, its open mouth baring brown, bloodied teeth. He aimed at its head and fired, then sprinted down the trail toward the parking lot. He had no way to decapitate the ghoul, or to crush its skull. He hoped the bullet would slow it down long enough for him to get to Sam.

He raced around the curving path. Through the trees came sounds of struggle: grunts of pain, the _whack_ of fists striking bones, the _squelch_ of metal slicing into flesh. Dean leaped the corpse of the wraith he'd killed earlier, and pounded ahead. Moonlight illuminated the trail; now he spotted more bodies on the ground, and just beyond them, three figures fighting.

Sam, still upright, threw the rugaru to the ground. He spun, but too late to block the female vampire, who punched the side of his head, knocking him off balance. Before he could raise his machete, she pounced on his back, sinking her fangs into his shoulder. Sam fell to his knees with a yell of pain. The rugaru got back to its feet and went for Sam.

Dean hurtled toward his brother. He threw himself into the vampire, tearing her off of Sam, and landed on top of her. She thrashed beneath him, snarling and spitting. He punched her, then punched her again. He needed that machete.

He poured all his strength into pinning the vamp down—he couldn't hold her much longer. Scuffling sounds behind him told him Sam was wrestling the rugaru. Then, a thud farther behind him. He twisted his head toward the noise, scared Sam had gone down.

But Sam was right there, taking one big stride forward, machete raised. _Thunk._

The vampire's head rolled a few inches, and stopped at the edge of the path.

Dean jumped up, braced to fight the rugaru, though they had no way to kill it.

Leaving the machete on the ground, Sam reached both hands into his jacket pockets. In one smooth motion, he rose, turned, and pointed a lighter and a can of aerosol hair spray at the charging monster. A stream of fire roared out, engulfing the shrieking rugaru. It flailed off the path, waving flaming arms. The stench of burning skin and hair filled the night air. The creature crashed through underbrush that was still too green to catch fire. Soon, it fell, and lay still. The flames burned lower, until a only smoldering heap remained.

Dean and Sam stood side by side, panting, trying to catch their breath as they watched. Finally, Dean spoke. "You carry around hair spray?"

A small, pained smile made its way across Sam's face. "I keep some in the trunk. Just in case."

Dean closed the gap between them, and pulled Sam down into a fierce hug. He held onto him, looking past him, through the dark tree branches at the stars. He ought to be dead right now. They both should. His little brother was one hell of a hunter.

Dean clapped him on the back, and let him go before it got weird.

"I thought I heard you say 'rugaru,'" Sam said. "It's a good thing I did." His smile vanished, and deep wrinkles creased his forehead. "What the hell happened here?"

Dean eyed the carnage littering the ground: seven bodies, including the rugaru. If they walked back to the cabin, they'd pass three more. The ghoul he'd shot hadn't reappeared, and neither had the shifter mimicking Sam. Their bearded werewolf was in the wind.

"It was an ambush," Dean said in a dead voice. "The werewolf had them all working together."

Sam's eyes widened, shining in the moonlight. "Have you ever heard of anything like that?"

Dean shook his head, and winced at the burning pain in the back of his neck.

Sam's brows knitted even deeper wrinkles. "What lead were you following? Why didn't you call me?"

Dean gritted his teeth as the knife buried in his chest gave another twist. Ruthie—no. He wouldn't tell Sam yet. There had to be something he was missing. A different explanation than the one the werewolf had given him.

He was desperate not to believe it. But the evidence was all there. She'd hidden the paper from them and tried to go find the wolf. She'd said it would "ruin everything" if they found out what she was doing. She hadn't wanted them to hunt it. She'd acted so weird and shady lately. And the texts that sent them both here...he couldn't get around those. That werewolf was obviously persuasive, if it could get different species of monsters all to fight together. For them, it had found the right button, and pushed. Apparently it had done the same with Ruthie.

He reached for any other explanation. Maybe other monsters sent by the werewolf had used her phone or forced her to send the texts. Was she possessed? Or a shapeshifter? Maybe the real Ruthie was a hostage, or dead, and the one he'd left at the motel was a fake. It would be easy enough to find out.

Dean never figured he'd ever hope Ruthie was being possessed or held hostage or mimicked by a shifter. But all three were far better than the alternatives.

Sam was still waiting for an answer.

"It was a misunderstanding," Dean said. Then he motioned at Sam's vampire-bitten shoulder. "Let me see."

"I'm fine," Sam said.

Dean turned on his phone flashlight and shone it onto the wound. Two deep semicircles of punctures. He guided the light over the rest of him, and found several more injuries, including a nasty gash across his upper chest.

"Werewolf," Sam told him. "Claws, not teeth."

Light footsteps from the direction of the cabin instantly sent both brothers into combat mode. Dean extended his gun; Sam snatched the machete from the ground. Dean glared through the .45's sights while the footsteps neared.

A single figure limped into view. Long, dark hair hung over her shoulders. Moonlight glowed faintly on her skin. She was naked, and trying to cover herself with her arms and hands. She stumbled closer, panting and gasping.

Sam lowered his blade. "Ruthie?"

He started toward her, but Dean threw an arm across his chest. Sam protested. "Dean, what are you—?"

"Wait," Dean ordered.

She raised an anguished face to them. "Sam!" she called.

Again, Sam tried to go to her. Dean stiffened his arm, holding him back. Sam gave him a bewildered look. Dean turned his head just slightly to one side, staring Sam down, wordlessly telling him to stay put.

Dean lowered his arm from Sam's chest and aimed his phone's still-lit flashlight at the woman's face. Ruthie's face. An instant was all it took.

Her white eyes widened in the split second before a gun blast shook the woods. A dark spot appeared in the center of her chest, and she dropped to the ground, face down. She didn't move.

Sam stood beside him, his feet frozen in place, the rest of him shaking, staring at the body. Dean stared for a few moments too, while smoke wafted into the air from the barrel of his gun. He slowly lowered it.

"So she wasn't… That wasn't…" Sam couldn't seem to form the whole sentence.

"That wasn't her," Dean finished for him. He found he couldn't bring himself to say her name.

Something near her hand glinted on the dirt path. Dean walked slowly over to it, trying to focus on the object rather than looking at not-Ruthie's naked body. He bent down and picked it up, then went back to Sam.

He held up the knife for Sam to see. "One more ambush," he said. "It was gonna use her to get close to us." His throat squeezed tight around his words. "Because it knew we trusted her."

Sam glanced at him, and pressed his lips together.

Dean tossed the knife into the woods. "Let's go get you patched up," he told Sam.

Sam nodded and they headed for the parking lot. "Hope Ruthie's got plenty of floss," Sam said, grimacing and cupping a hand over his shoulder.

Dean stiffened. "Sammy, you're going to a real doctor. I saw one of those urgent care places near the marina."

"Why? Ruthie can do it."

Because Ruthie might not be Ruthie anymore. If she needed to be rescued, Dean would do it. He wasn't dragging torn-up Sam into another fight. And if she was still herself, and didn't need to be rescued…he didn't even want to think about it. But he knew he wouldn't want Sam there. "You know she'll just make you go back out and get antibiotics anyway."

Sam frowned. "Fine. But first we go check on her. I really wanna make sure she's okay after—" he swept an arm behind them "—all this."

Dean had to concentrate to unclench his jaw. "Look, I'm dropping you off at the doc and then going straight to check on her. Okay?"

Sam kept frowning at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. The motion made him wince and grab at his shoulder again. "Alright."

They rode in silence through town. Dean sat up straight, to keep from bleeding on his headrest and down his seat. The back of his neck burned and throbbed, but Sam looked worse. He was covered in cuts and scratches besides the gash in his chest, and that vampire bite was plenty deep. Although really, none of it was too bad, considering they should both be dead. If Sam hadn't called, if Dean hadn't stayed on the phone long enough to tell him what was coming, if Baby hadn't been parked out there for Sam to grab weapons from the trunk…

If they hadn't gotten those texts, none of it would have happened in the first place.

His adrenaline was long gone. Now, he'd feel numb if it weren't for the constant, gnawing pain in his chest. His mind filled with Ruthie's face, Ruthie's smile, Ruthie's laugh. Those images used to make him feel warm and full, like a home-cooked meal. Now, they hollowed him out more each second, like pickaxes chipping away at him from the inside.

He pulled up to the urgent care and let Sam out. "Tell her I'm okay," Sam told him through the window.

Dean gave him one short nod, and drove away, waiting until Sam was out of sight to let his face harden.

Yes, Sam was okay. And he was going to stay that way.

No matter what it took.

No matter what Dean had to do.


	15. Chapter 15

Ruthie pulled back the curtain and peered through the window for the tenth time since Sam and Dean had left. The sun had sunk behind the hills well over an hour ago. She watched the street for a few moments, hoping to spot the Impala's headlights, but they didn't come. Her phone lay on the end table by the sofa, but she forced herself to leave it alone. Dean, especially, didn't like it when she called while they were hunting. The wrong timing could get them killed, he'd told her. So, she tried to hunt online for their next potential case, tried to watch TV, tried to tidy up the motel room. It was impossible to concentrate on anything when all she could think about was what might be happening to them.

She switched off the TV, picked up the final few pieces of dirty clothes she'd left on the floor, and stuffed them into her bag. She'd take all their stuff to the laundromat tomorrow.

Oh, wait. She wasn't allowed to leave the room. Well, maybe Sam would be her chaperone. She doubted Dean would volunteer for the job.

She sank onto the sofa. Something had changed in him, in the way he saw her. She'd seen it in his eyes just a few hours ago, when she'd advocated hunting the witch rather than the werewolf. She'd seen it the day before, when he questioned her about going off on her own. He had known she wasn't being honest with him. Now, in about twenty-four hours, he'd gone from nearly kissing her to keeping her at arms' length.

Ruthie inwardly berated herself—her new favorite pastime. Why did she have to pull such a stupid stunt? Why couldn't she just tell him the truth? It wouldn't have been _that_ humiliating to swear to stay in the bunker forever if he would just promise not to send her away.

Okay, it would have been humiliating. But what did she have to lose? Only her pride. And what was that, compared with losing _them_?

What was taking them so long, anyway? She drummed her fingers on the arm of the sofa, eyeing her phone on the end table. After a few more seconds of drumming fingers and bouncing knees, she snatched it up and found the number she wanted.

"Agent Griffin," came the friendly drawl. "What can I do you for?"

"Hi, Officer Dixon. I was just calling to follow up on that suspect, wondering if you had any updates."

"No, ma'am; I wish I did. But like I said, you'll be the first person I notify if we hear or see anything."

"Okay. I appreciate it. Agents Plant and Page are out right now following up on the lead you sent me. Have you heard from either of them tonight?"

There was a long pause.

"Ma'am? I'm not sure I follow."

Now Ruthie paused. What was confusing about what she'd said? Maybe her phone had cut out. "I just said that my colleagues are checking out the lead you texted me on our suspect, and I wondered if you'd heard from them."

"Now, what lead is this, Agent Griffin? You say I texted it to you?"

Ruthie dug her fingernails into her palm. Maybe Dean was right about small town cops being mostly incompetent hicks. She tried to keep her voice cordial. "Yes, Officer. The lead you sent about a woman matching our suspect's description walking along the road out west of town. Carrying a bag from the Bluebird?"

"This is the first I'm hearing of it, ma'am. You sure you're not confusing me with somebody else in the department?" He gave a good-natured chuckle. "Maybe I didn't leave the impression I'd hoped."

Ruthie frowned at the voice on the other end of the line. It had only been a couple of hours. How could he have completely forgotten? She opened her mouth to say that she hadn't given her number to any other officer, when a pair of bright lights swept behind the curtains, and a rumbling engine halted just outside.

"Um, yes, well I guess that was my mistake, Officer Dixon. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Please, call me Dan. No bother at all, Agent Griffin. In fact, while I've got you on the line, I was wondering if you might like to have a cup of coffee with me tomorrow. We could compare notes, maybe discuss that theory of mine?"

A key twisted in the lock.

"I'm sorry; I have to go now." Ruthie hit End, and jumped up from the sofa just as Dean swung the door open.

He stood in the doorway for a second, eyeing her, and the phone in her hand. "Did I interrupt something?" he asked, with none of the usual playfulness in his tone.

"No." She set the phone back down on the end table. She wanted to run to him, hug him, exclaim how relieved she was to see him. But everything about Dean right now told her to stay away: the rigid way he was standing, angled away from her, his arms stiff at his sides, head lowered, green eyes icy and narrow. He shut the door with a slow but purposeful push, and turned the deadbolt.

Something about him turning that lock filled her with dread, though she couldn't have said why.

He scanned the room, glanced at her phone again. "Anyone been here since we left?" he asked.

She shook her head. Who would have been there?

Dean set his car keys on the table. "What's the matter, Ruthie?" he asked, taking a few slow steps toward her. "You don't look happy to see me."

It wasn't his words that chilled her. Asked in a different tone, in Dean's regular voice, they could have been teasing, harmless. But this wasn't Dean's regular voice. This man in the room with her hardly seemed like Dean at all.

She fought to keep her voice steady. "Dean, what happened? Where's Sam?"

At Sam's name, his mouth hardened into a straight line. "Sam's getting patched up in town." He stepped closer to her. "I thought it would be nice for you and me to have some time alone. To talk."

His expression suggested their time alone would be anything but nice. She shrank back from him, her mind reeling now between needing to know why he was acting like this, and what had happened to Sam.

Sam going to a doctor rather than coming to her won out. "What happened to Sam? How bad is it?"

He fixed her with his cold, unfamiliar eyes. "Not nearly as bad at it was supposed to be."

He might as well have smacked her across the face. Whatever had happened, he blamed her. She read it on his face, as clearly as she'd ever read him.

Ruthie's thin facade of calm shattered. A shiver shook through her, and slipped out in her voice. "Dean, _please_ tell me what's going on. You're scaring me."

A mocking, mirthless grin stretched his already tight lips. "I am, huh?" He turned his head away from her and spotted her bag near the sofa, all packed from her tidying. The grin faded. "Going somewhere?" he asked in a clipped tone.

With his head turned, she now noticed an awful, raw wound in the back of his neck. A deep, irregular divot was missing, the flesh around the edges torn and bleeding.

Without thinking, she stepped toward him, hand reaching out to him. "Dean, you're hurt—"

A blur of motion; strong hands clamped down on her upper arms. Her head and back slammed into the wall behind her. Dean pressed a forearm across her upper chest and shoulders, pinning her against the wall. Inches away, his face swam before her. He watched her eyes intently as he drew something from his pocket.

Ruthie squeezed her eyes shut, then reopened them, trying to stop the dizzy spin of the room. Her heart hammered in her chest, just below his bulging forearm. He leaned against her, crushing her shoulder blades into the wall. She shot a glance down and to her left; her phone lay on the end table right beside them. If she could just reach it and somehow call Sam—

She jolted as something wet splashed over her face.

She blinked away the liquid from her eyes. Dean frowned, a flask in his hand. The flask he carried holy water in.

He'd thought she was possessed?

Water dripped from her chin to her throat, and trickled down inside her thin sweater. "Dean—" she gasped. The pressure of his arm across her chest made it impossible to take a deep breath.

He'd already tossed the flask aside. He reached into his pocket again, and pulled out a small silver knife.

Her eyes locked onto it; she couldn't look away. "Dean," she said again, voice quavering.

The muscles in his arm gave the tiniest flinch. Then he gripped the knife tighter. "Hold out your hand," he ordered in a gruff voice.

Ruthie's eyes filled, and Dean's stony face shimmered. She pulled in a shallow, shuddering breath. She bent her left arm at the elbow, and lifted her left hand to him. He lay the sharp metal edge against her palm. Another flex of his jaw, then he drew the blade across her skin.

A red furrow opened, and Ruthie whimpered—more in fear than in pain.

Dean's intense gaze snapped from her hand to her face. She blinked, and two hot tears slid down her cheeks. The ice in his eyes cracked. They turned a paler shade of green, and his brows pulled up and together. He looked as though she'd just snatched the knife and stabbed him in the heart. He lowered his arm from her chest, and she gasped for breath. He took a step back, seemingly dazed.

"It's you," he said.

She stood there against the wall, shaking and holding her bleeding left hand with her right. He stared at her, the red-edged knife still in his hand. The pain in her palm was nothing compared with the anguish in his eyes. Her jagged breathing punctuated the silence in the room.

Finally, he spoke, the agony on his face mirrored in his voice. "Why?"

Ruthie's voice trembled uncontrollably. "Please tell me what happened."

He seemed not to have heard her. "One meeting. One more time. That's what we were worth to you."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. She shivered, her hands twitching in spasms. What in the hell had happened out there? She tried to breathe normally, to stop hyperventilating. "Dean, whatever you think I did—"

"Sam loved you like a sister!" he shouted, exploding like a grenade. She recoiled from him, knocking her head into the wall again. "And I—" He broke off, breathing hard, red-faced. He stared at her as though he'd never seen her before. He raked a hand into his hair, clutched the back of his head, and dropped his gaze to the floor—or to the knife in his hand; she wasn't sure which.

Ruthie pressed against the wall, paralyzed.

Dean let go of his head and pressed his fingers into his eyes for several seconds. He took several long breaths. Then he straightened to face her, his face like stone again. "So. Now what do I do with you?" All emotion had vanished from his voice. "You know all about the bunker. How to get inside. Where we sleep. You know how we operate, how we think, how we hunt. You know everything."

Ruthie's knees went weak. She wasn't sure how long she'd be able to stay upright.

"What you did to me," he said in a flat voice, "I might have found a way to forgive you for that someday." Then his tone turned sharper than his knife. "But not Sam. That, I can't forgive." He closed the gap between them in one stride, trapping her against the wall without touching her. He adjusted his grip on the blade. "I won't let anything happen to my brother. Not on my watch. I can't let this happen again. You know me well enough to understand that. You ought to."

Tremors shook her whole body. Her heart thrashed around inside her ears. "Dean," she choked. "Wait for Sam." She rasped a breath. "Please." If he would wait for Sam, surely they could sort this out. Whatever he believed she'd done, they could figure it out together. If he'd just put down the knife.

He shook his head. "No. I gotta do this alone." He sounded like his throat was filled with gravel. "I don't want Sam to be part of it."

He reached toward her, slid his empty hand past her ear, through her hair, behind her head. Her scalp tugged as his fingers wound into her hair. He pulled down gently, tilting her chin up toward him. For a bewildered moment, she wondered if he was going to kiss her.

A thin edge of cold, sharp metal pressed against her exposed throat.

Strangely, her fear evaporated. Her nurse brain stood off to the side, telling her she was in shock. She barely heard it. This whole scenario was too impossible. Dean, her Dean, standing over her with a knife to her throat? It couldn't be happening. This wasn't real.

After he'd caved and allowed her to start coming on hunts with them, she'd confronted her own mortality. The possibility that something could go wrong. She'd catalogued dozens of ways it could happen, ranking them from least to most horrible. The least awful ones always included the chance to say goodbye.

She'd imagined it a hundred times: dying in his arms. But never like this. She fought off a hysterical urge to giggle.

Dean's brusque voice snapped her out of it. "Anything you want to say?"

 _Yes._ Her mind raced through all the things she wanted to say.

 _Please wait._

 _I don't understand._

 _I'd never hurt you._

 _Tell Sam I love him._

 _I forgive you._

But her throat had closed off completely. Even if she were capable of speech, it wouldn't matter. Dean had set his mind to his task; she could see it in the hard line of his jaw, the way it flexed at the corners.

She raised her hands, now perfectly steady, and rested them against his chest. Even beneath his layers of t-shirt and flannel, her fingers could trace the tough, raised stripes of his scars. The ones he'd gotten on the day they met. The ones she'd so carefully closed, suture by suture, before she even knew his name. Beneath the dense scar tissue, his heartbeat pulsed against her fingertips. The same heartbeat she'd monitored so closely in those first few hours.

She lifted her gaze to his face, and looked into his eyes. He lasted only for a moment before tearing them away, his Adam's apple bobbing.

His fist tightened around her hair, stretching her chin up higher. His lips became a single, white slash across his mouth. His knife hand tensed. He took a quick, deep breath.

Ruthie closed her eyes.

One eternal second passed. Then another. Then a third.

She peeked through squinting eyes. Beads of sweat quivered on Dean's creased brow. He stared at the knife, taking shallow breaths through pale lips. Then he shifted his feet, repositioned the blade, clenched his jaw. His face darkened, brows curling down over stormy, narrowed eyes like wind-whipped waves. His arm stiffened; metal bit into her skin. She winced, and a tiny gasp escaped.

He stopped. His brows jumped; his eyelids widened, then shuddered. His lips parted again, trembling.

"Chris-TEE-na."

The familiar tune sang from Dean's pocket. The tone for text messages from Ruthie.

Ruthie's eyes flew open wide. Dean froze in place, eyes bouncing from her to her phone, still lying on the end table beside them.

"Chris-TEE-na."

Dean flinched, now staring at Ruthie. He blinked. Blinked again. "How are you doing that?" he rasped, eyes back on her phone.

All she could manage was a jerky shake of her head.

Slowly, Dean lowered the blade and unwound his hand from her hair.

Her heart began to beat again; she found she was able to breathe. But she couldn't move. Her legs felt like jello-filled concrete.

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, holding it away from him as though it were a snake about to strike.

They both stared at the two texts on the screen—texts which said they came from Ruthie.

 _It wasn't her._

 _It was me._

The deadbolt clicked; the door swung open, and Sam huffed in. "The place wasn't even open, Dean, but you drove off before—"

A cry she hadn't realized she'd been holding in tore out of Ruthie's throat. An electric burst of energy surged through her, launching her off the wall, past Dean, past the knife he still held in his hand.

She threw herself into Sam's arms and sobbed.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam had walked into a scene he could not comprehend.

He'd dragged himself into their motel room, his untreated wounds now seriously hurting, ready to give Dean a piece of his mind for leaving him at that clinic without making sure it was open. He'd tried to call, but his phone had died.

The scene he'd walked in on did not compute. Ruthie, white-faced and trembling, glued to the wall, cupping her bleeding left hand with her right. Dean stood over her, his phone in one hand and his silver knife in the other, watching the phone as if it were a rattlesnake.

Ruthie had hurled herself across the room at Sam. He'd only just managed to catch her before she half-collapsed, sobbing and shaking, clinging to him as though her life depended on it.

But in the single, confused moment when he'd first opened the door, when she was still backed up against the wall, he'd seen the sliver of scarlet standing out from her pale throat. He'd noticed the tinge of red on the sharp edge of Dean's knife.

"Dean, what the _hell_ is going on?"

Sam's breath clouded, wisping in the air. A shiver interrupted Ruthie's crying.

A flickering, transparent figure appeared at the foot of Sam's bed, between him and Dean. Sam wrapped his arms tighter around Ruthie, sweeping his eyes over the kitchenette, trying to spot a salt shaker. Dean quickly lowered the phone and faced the figure.

It flickered twice more, then stabilized. He was an average-looking man, brown-haired, in jeans, a green jacket, and work boots. His expression held none of the bitter hatred Sam usually saw on the faces of vengeful spirits. This one looked sad. The ghost looked from Dean to Sam to Ruthie, who peeked at it from the safety of Sam's arms. Her weeping had stopped, replaced by convulsive sniffling.

"You can see me?" the ghost asked.

"We see you," Dean said.

"I'm new at this," it said. No one responded, and the ghost dropped his gaze to the floor, looking sheepish. "I came to tell you it was me. I sent the texts." He looked back up at Dean and hurried on. "But only because she tricked me."

Dean shot a glance at Ruthie. "Who tricked you?"

The spirit hesitated. "A woman. I guess she's a…a witch. I didn't know they were real." He looked down at himself. "'Course, I never believed in ghosts, either. And now look at me." He let out a sad sigh. "I don't know how long I've been here…been dead. Feels like forever, but I guess maybe it hasn't been more'n a day or two."

His white hands curled and uncurled at his sides. "I never felt myself hit the ground. One second I was falling, and the next, I was jerked into this weird place. Not in the world, but sort of beside it. All shadows and scared voices. But right away, she was there. Talking to me. Not her whole self, but her voice. Said she was there to help me. That it wasn't an accident, and she knew who clipped my rope."

He raised pale brown eyes to Dean, then Sam. "She showed me you. Both of you. I don't know how. But I saw you two, shootin' and stabbin' people and such. She said you were killers, that you killed me. And you were gonna kill Andrea next."

He rubbed his arm. "I can tell it sounds crazy now. But right then, I was so confused; I didn't know up from down. I mean, I had just _died_. I was scared and mad. And this woman, she seemed to know everything."

Sam glanced at Dean. He looked terrible, as though an awful realization were slowly dawning on him. His brother lowered his head. "Where did you fall from?" he asked the ghost.

"Cell tower. I was working up there. I guess that's why she wanted me." He gestured at the phone in Dean's hand. "I don't know how to explain it, but I can get inside them. I can travel in the signals." His gaze dropped to the floor again. "She told me what to write. The first one, to get you two separated. The next ones, to get you out to the cabin. When to send 'em, so you wouldn't get there at the same time. She said I was protecting Andrea." Then his jaw jutted out. "But it was all lies. I heard her just a little bit ago, in her phone. She called someone, whoever she was working with. They were both real angry. I guess you two messed up their plan pretty bad. She yelled a lot of stuff. Now I know she killed me herself, just so she could use me."

His eyes traveled to Ruthie's feet. He couldn't seem to raise them to her face. "She told him some stuff she saw in your head. About your dad. I thought you should know."

A puff of breath fogged from Dean's mouth. He jolted, yanking his fingers off the knife; it fell to the floor.

The ghost looked up at them all again, a sorrowful expression on his translucent face. "I never hurt anybody in my life. Honest. I'm real sorry."

Sam still didn't fully understand, but he was beginning to piece it together. The text he'd gotten from Ruthie earlier apparently hadn't been from her at all. And Dean must have gotten one, too. Luring them out to the cabin, where the werewolf and all the others were waiting.

Then Dean had insisted on taking him to a clinic instead of bringing him here, to Ruthie.

And now Sam was holding a terrified Ruthie—the front of her sweater wet with what he had to assume was holy water, her palm sliced open, her throat grazed—while Dean held a silver knife.

Dean had tested to see if she were possessed, or a shifter. And when she wasn't…

Sam's knees went weak. _Oh, God, Dean._ His eyes jumped to his brother.

Dean stood with his shoulders slumped, his head bowed, staring at the knife on the floor.

The ghost spoke again. "I'll leave you folks alone now. I just wanted to apologize." His mouth tightened, and Sam recognized the glint of vengefulness that crept into his glassy eyes. "And don't you worry about that witch. I'll fix her."

With that, he vanished.

For several moments, no one moved. Then Ruthie sucked in a staccato breath. Dean flinched at the sound.

Sam didn't know what to say, couldn't think where to even begin. He could guess what had led Dean to do it, and yet couldn't believe he had. Ruthie stood still now; she had released her frantic grip on his shirt. Dean hadn't stopped staring at the floor.

Finally, Dean turned toward them, eyes still on his feet. His arms hung limp at his sides. He raised his head only partway, and with effort, as though it were weighed down with sandbags. When his red-rimmed eyes reached Ruthie's, they flickered like a candle near an open window, as if the light in them could go out at any moment.

"The werewolf," he began in a fractured voice, "told me it made a deal with you. To see your dad again. I didn't want to believe it, but the texts…" He broke off, a pleading expression spreading across his grim face. "Ruthie—" He took a tentative step forward, reaching a hand out to her.

She cringed away from Dean, grabbing onto Sam again. Sam put a hand on her head. His eyes stung; his heart was ripping in two, one torn piece for each of them. He cast about for something to say, anything to say, to get them through this awful moment and to a place where they could hear each other out. But what could he say that would change what had happened before he'd walked through the door? How could any words erase the cold bite of metal? How could they wash away the stain of guilt in his brother's eyes?

Dean lowered his extended hand in slow motion. Haunted green eyes jumped from Ruthie, to Sam, to the spot where the ghost had appeared. Then they dropped to the floor again. He walked to the door, going out of his way to stay as far from Ruthie and Sam as he could. He shut the door behind him. The Impala's engine rumbled to life, and her headlights gave a subdued glow through the curtains. They sent shadows sliding across the room, then disappeared.

Ruthie hid her face against Sam's chest. Her shoulders shook for a few seconds, then stilled. Sam waited. After a minute or so, she straightened up, took a deep breath, and blew it out. Her puffy eyes went straight to the gash across his upper chest and the ugly teeth marks in his shoulder. "You're hurt," she croaked.

"I'll live," he said. "Are you okay?" He regretted it immediately. Of course she wasn't okay. She might never be okay again after tonight.

She didn't answer; she went to her bag and dug out her first aid kit. "Shirt off," she ordered.

She wrapped her bleeding hand tight with gauze, then made him bend down over the sink while she washed out his bite wound. He gritted his teeth while she dabbed iodine on all his cuts and scratches. Her gentle stitching with a needle and floss was the least painful part of the evening.

Once she'd tied the final stitch, closing the gash below his collarbone, she snipped the floss and wiped away the last smears of blood from his skin. The bite wound wasn't so simple. She had cleaned it and covered it with a bandage, but you couldn't really stitch puncture wounds.

"You're going to a doctor first thing in the morning," she told him. "You need antibiotics right away."

A wry half-smile tugged at Sam's mouth. "Dean told me you'd say that."

Ruthie stiffened for a moment, then continued putting away her supplies.

Sam bowed his head. "Ruthie…" He didn't know what to say, but he couldn't say nothing. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry about what happened—about Dean. I can't imagine how you must feel right now."

She replaced the dental floss in her kit, shut the lid, and sat staring at her bandaged left hand in her lap.

Sam leaned toward her. "I know Dean. You know him. We both know he wouldn't have done it if he thought he had any other choice."

She didn't lift her eyes from her lap. "Tell me what happened."

He started with the text he'd received from her while he waited at the Bluebird, and ended with Dean dropping him off at the clinic.

He left out the part about Dean shooting the shapeshifter wearing Ruthie's form.

When he finished, she raised glistening eyes to meet his. "Sam. Thank God you're alive. You both should've…" She couldn't seem to finish the sentence.

She studied her gauze-wrapped hand again, and took a shaky breath. "So, those texts sent you guys out there, into a trap. And the werewolf told Dean it had bought me off. That I had betrayed you."

Sam nodded. "Trying to hurt him as much as possible, I guess."

"Earlier, when he was…" She trailed off, putting her fingers to the thin cut on her throat. "He looked so…tortured. I didn't know why; he wouldn't tell me. He said he couldn't let you get hurt." Her dark eyes met Sam's. "He was protecting his little brother."

Sam pressed his lips together. That was what it always came down to, wasn't it? If Dean was doing something desperate or sacrificial, Sam's well-being was probably at stake. Or at least, Dean believed it was.

He just nodded at Ruthie.

They took turns in the bathroom, brushing their teeth and getting dressed for bed. They sat on the couch and turned on the TV, just for noise. Neither of them talked much, and neither mentioned Dean, but they each cast more frequent glances at the window as the night wore on. At midnight, Sam tried Dean's cell, but he didn't answer. He tried again at one. Still nothing.

Ruthie had been asleep with her head in his lap for over an hour by the time Sam finally nodded off.

Dean still hadn't returned.


	17. Chapter 17

Dean didn't have a destination. He just drove. He needed to put as much distance as possible between him and what he'd done in that motel room.

But distance didn't help. Ruthie's terrified eyes and color-drained face wouldn't go away, no matter how many miles he put behind him.

He pulled off the highway at a seedy dive, and flipped his jacket collar up to hide the open bite wound on the back of his neck. He drank a beer alone at the bar. A curvy blonde sidled up to him and tried to make small talk. Six months ago, he would have closed the deal in under three minutes. But not now. Not tonight. When she didn't take the hint from his gruff, monotone answers, he quit responding at all. She hit him with an angry insult he barely heard, and flounced away.

His phone rang. Sam again. He ignored it.

Sam would forgive him. Sam always did, sooner or later, whether he deserved it or not.

Dean didn't want forgiveness. Not from Sam. Not from Ruthie. He damn sure didn't want it from himself.

He wanted punishment. That's what he deserved.

He took his time finishing his beer, then turned to look around the dark, dingy room. To his right, a few small tables hosted some sad-looking drunks. To his left, a rowdier group crowded around a beat-up pool table. The blonde he'd pissed off was now giggling, tucked into the side of a very large, very tattooed man with a buzz cut and beady eyes.

Dean tossed some money on the bar and headed toward the happy couple.

"Hey, sugar," he drawled to the woman. "I changed my mind. Wanna get outta here?"

She pulled the giant's arm tighter around her shoulders. "Screw you, asshole."

The big man smirked. "You heard her, pal."

Dean stepped closer to him, and leaned up into his square face. "I wasn't talking to you, _pal_." Then he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and flipped through them, addressing the woman again. "Come on, sweetheart. If Buzz Cut can afford you, so can I. How much?"

Her mouth fell open; she made an inarticulate sound of fury. The huge man's bicep bulged as he swung her to the side and cocked his arm back. Dean smiled in the split second before the melon-sized fist connected with his jaw.

Pain reverberated through Dean's skull, rattling his brain and exploding black fireworks in front of his eyes before he even hit the ground. He savored the taste of blood in his mouth, and darted his tongue across his busted bottom lip. He rolled over onto all fours and spat the collecting blood onto the dirty floor. "Is that all you got, princess?" he wheezed.

A heavy boot swung into his stomach like a wrecking ball. He collapsed facedown with a grunt, and lay there choking, rocking back and forth.

Then the booted foot stomped down on his neck, grinding into the raw, gouged-out crater beneath his collar.

Fire and lightning ripped down his spine, through every nerve, into his fingertips, his toes. It blinded him, deafened him, strangled him. Ruthie's face disappeared. All conscious thought vanished. There was nothing left in the world except the barrage of agony jackhammering every single cell of his body.

After several seconds—or hours; it was impossible to tell—the pressure lifted from his neck, leaving him groaning and twitching on the grimy floor. Angry voices flew overhead. Two sets of rough hands grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him toward the door, his head dangling, the toes of his boots dragging on the floor behind him. The door swung open, the hands gave him a hard shove, and he pitched forward onto the gravel parking lot.

Dean lay there in the rocks, focusing on the echoes of pain still shooting through his mouth, neck, and stomach. A fiery coal had embedded itself in the hole the ghoul's jaws had left. The chilly night air did nothing to cool its burning.

Good.

He waited until the three Impalas merged into one before pushing himself to his feet. He staggered over to Baby and fell into the driver's seat.

It wasn't enough. He knew it would never be enough. But it was a start.

He backed out of the parking lot and pointed Baby back toward Reeds Spring.

The drive back seemed to stretch on and on. The intermittent yellow lines down the middle of the two-lane highway seemed to space themselves farther and farther apart. He began spotting glowing yellow eyes every few miles, peering at him from the dark woods along the sides of the road. And it was so freaking _hot_ in the car. He was suffocating. Dean cranked down his window, and found he only had the strength to lower it halfway. Still, cold air whirled through the Impala, clearing his head and cooling him off—except for the back of his neck. That continued to burn and throb and ooze something thick and wet down onto his back. He passed a sign: Ten miles to Reeds Spring.

The next several miles passed more quickly, without any sightings of reflective eyes in the trees. He tried to figure out what he'd say to them. Maybe he could get Sam to hit him a few times. He could give Ruthie the knife, offer her his palm. His throat.

A sudden, violent chill racked him. He grasped for the window handle, tried to crank it up, but he couldn't budge it. The cold air that had felt so good minutes earlier was unbearable now. Head to toe shivers shook through him, rattling the steering wheel. Ruthie's face reappeared, floating just in front of the windshield, staring at him reproachfully. Sam's voice spoke clearly from the passenger seat, making him jump. "How could you do it, Dean?"

Dean jerked toward the voice, but Sam wasn't there.

The fort rolled by on his left. He was so close. He hunched forward over the steering wheel, trying to ward off the chilly air blowing in through the half-open window. The car lurched forward, then slowed, over and over as his foot shivered on the gas pedal. His teeth chattered; numbness spread through his fingers.

Behind him, the thinnest edge of the horizon turned gray in the pre-dawn. Ahead of him, Baby's headlights illuminated now-familiar buildings as she crawled through the sleeping town.

Finally, he reached their motel and pulled up to their faded blue door. He managed to switch off the ignition and open the car door with badly shaking hands. He limped up to the motel door, and extended the key toward the lock. But his jittering fingers couldn't make the key go in. It jumped and danced around the keyhole, metal scratching metal. Dean leaned his head against the door, trying to steady himself. He leaned faster than he meant to, and knocked his forehead against the wood. He tried the key again. It skittered over the keyhole, refusing to go in.

There was a click, and the handle turned. The door swung inward, and Dean stumbled forward. Sam caught him.

"Dean?"

Sam slipped an arm around him and guided him into the room, shutting the door behind them. Ruthie lay curled on the sofa, asleep. Dean's eyes shot to the wall beside the end table, instantly recreating the scene from hours earlier.

"Sammy, I'm sorry." His voice was all wrong, guttural and hoarse.

Sam was focused on Dean's split lip. "Dean, what the hell happened? You're—" he pressed a cool hand to Dean's forehead. "Oh my God. Ruthie!"

She shot upright, eyes white and startled.

"He's burning up."

Sam half-dragged him to the nearest bed and sat beside him on the edge, holding him up with one arm. "Dean, what happened?" Sam asked again.

But now Ruthie was there, looking down at him, her face a battlefield of conflicting emotions. He tried to reach out to her, but his arm was too heavy. "I'm sorry Ruthie," he rasped. "So sorry."

A new chill spasmed through him. He slumped forward, curling his arms and shoulders into his core.

"Ruthie?" Sam sounded scared. Dean wondered if the ghost was back, if that was why the room was so cold.

"I need to see his neck," Ruthie said in a tight voice.

Sam kept him propped up while Ruthie folded back his collar. A short gasp. Her fingertips trembled against his skin. Then her voice came, sharp and strained. "Put him in the bathtub and call 911."

"I'm sorry," Dean repeated. Why weren't they listening?

Sam, white-faced, hoisted Dean like a child and carried him into the bathroom. He lowered him into the tub, gently resting Dean's head where the rim of the tub met the wall.

"Sammy, you can hit me," Dean said.

"It's okay, Dean. We're gonna get you help." Sam backed out of the room, pulling his phone from his pocket.

Ruthie squeezed past Sam and knelt by the tub. She reached between his feet and pushed in the stopper, then twisted one of the knobs all the way on. Water poured in and pooled around his feet. Ruthie unlaced his left boot and tugged it off. Then the right. He winced when she set his feet into the water. It was boiling hot. Or else it was ice cold. He couldn't tell which.

Ruthie stood and grabbed every towel and washcloth in the bathroom, then crouched by the faucet again. She held a white washrag under the streaming water, then laid it over his head. Cold water dripped down his face and neck. Then she soaked a towel, draped the heavy fabric across his chest, and tucked it around his shoulders. The next one, she turned longwise and covered him from stomach to knees.

"I'm…sorry," he told her, voice hitching with the now-constant shivering.

Her brown eyes flicked to his for an instant before jumping back to the hand towel she held under the faucet. Long enough for him to see how pale her face had turned. "We'll talk about it later, okay? Right now I just need you to stay with me."

Something weird was happening with the light. Ruthie on his left and the wall on his right were going dark. The circle of space he could see shrank until there was only his bent knees, and the silver faucet between them. "Ruth-thie," he chattered. "So…sorry."

"Dean?"

His eyes rolled back. The faucet disappeared.

The scream of distant sirens matched Ruthie's shrill, faraway voice. "Dean!"

Then everything was quiet.


	18. Chapter 18

Sam sat beside Dean's hospital bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Hours of relentless worry had left him bone tired. They'd eventually gotten the infection under control, but doubts lingered about the after effects of that high fever. The doctor had seemed optimistic, but warned they wouldn't know for sure if there had been any brain damage until Dean woke up.

It was difficult for Sam to imagine something so destructive happening in Dean's head, because he seemed so peaceful—besides his swollen, split, black-and-blue bottom lip. The hospital bed propped him up at a forty-five degree angle. He lay under a thin blue blanket, his breathing shallow but steady. An IV tube stuck out from a vein on the back of his left hand. Late afternoon sun shone through the window blinds.

Sam rubbed his forehead, wondering how long he'd have to wait like this before Dean woke up. The last time he'd taken a short bathroom break, his reflection had startled him. Dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, hollow cheeks. Like he'd aged ten years since last night. He kept wondering what he'd do if Dean wasn't Dean anymore. He'd murmured a few dozen prayers already, fully aware that his brother would mock him if he knew.

Sam thought back to early that morning, when Dean had stumbled in with bloodshot eyes and fiery skin. He'd apologized over and over. Every labored breath had been an "I'm sorry." Every shuddering exhalation a pleading for forgiveness. Sam knew his brother. Dean would beat himself up over what he'd done for years. From the looks of his lip, he'd already gotten started.

Sam leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and blew out a breath. For Dean, getting over the bite and infection and fever would be easy compared to getting over the guilt.

If he woke up.

"You look like hell."

Sam jumped; his eyes snapped to Dean's face. His brother lay there, looking a bit gray, but awake. And judging by that greeting, he was still entirely himself.

Sam suppressed a giant grin. He gestured to Dean, then himself. "Pot, kettle." Sam wiped his palms on his jeans to hide the fact that they were trembling with relief. "I was about ready to call Cas."

Dean's heavy-lidded eyes scanned the small hospital room. "So, what am I in for?"

Sam leaned in and folded his hands together. "That ghoul bite you didn't tell me about got infected. When the ambulance arrived, your temperature was nearly a hundred and six. It was probably higher before that, but Ruthie kept it down. She put you in a cold bath."

At the mention of her name, Dean's gaze dropped. He gritted his teeth, then stared off into a corner.

"Where did you go last night, Dean? What happened to your face?"

Dean opened and closed his hands a couple times. "I picked a fight."

Sam pressed his lips together and gave a nod. That sounded about right. "Dean," he began, but Dean cut him off.

"Don't, Sam. Okay? Just don't."

Sam sat back. Unbelievable. Dean had been awake for all of two minutes after nearly dying or being brain damaged, and he was already starting an argument. Yeah, he was definitely still Dean. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Yeah, I do. You're gonna tell me it's okay, I did what I thought I had to do, you forgive me. Or that I screwed up bad, but it's gonna be okay anyway. But it's not. What I did, what I almost did…it's not okay."

Sam recognized the familiar current of self-loathing running through Dean's words, his tone, his eyes. He waited for a minute. Then he asked, "Is that why you went out and got somebody to beat the crap out of you? Because you think you deserved it?"

Dean didn't look at him and didn't answer.

"Maybe you did deserve it, Dean. Maybe not. I'm not gonna pretend last night wasn't terrible. But yeah, I know why you did it. I see why you felt like you had to. Just...next time, talk to me, okay?"

Dean swallowed, and kept staring at the corner. "At least she's got some sense. Where did she go? Back to Idaho?"

With his gaze fixed opposite the door, Dean didn't notice Ruthie come silently into the room, a styrofoam coffee cup in each hand. She stopped, her eyes widening at the sight of Dean awake. Her eyes shot to Sam. He gave her a small smile. She hadn't spoken much since they'd arrived at the hospital, besides questioning the doctors about Dean's condition. He didn't know what was going on in her head, but he took it as a good sign that she was still here. He didn't know what she would do or say now, but he suspected it would decide the relationship between the three of them—and whether they'd have one after today.

Ruthie looked at Dean for several silent moments, her face working through a series of emotions. Her mouth tightened at first, and her body stiffened. But then she closed her eyes and took a long breath, in and out. When she opened them, every feature had softened. Without a sound, she set the coffee cups down on the small table beside Sam. Then she walked around the end of the bed, to Dean's side.

Dean spotted her coming. His arms pulled in tight against his sides. He looked up at her from eyes strained with remorse. They flicked to the thin cut on her throat, and began to glisten.

She stopped beside the bed. "You scared us, Dean," she said, her voice steady.

Sam was pretty sure she didn't intend it with a double meaning, but Dean's head flinched back into his pillow anyway.

She didn't seem to notice. Her gaze dropped to the bed, and she picked at some invisible lint on the bedspread. "There are some things I have to say. To both of you. But first, Dean." She lifted her eyes to his again and raised her chin. "You told me you were sorry. I believe you, and I accept your apology."

Dean's jaw started working, and she reached down and grabbed his hand.

"I forgive you, Dean." Her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.

He swallowed. Tears pooled in the bottoms of his eyes as he looked up at her. They quivered on his lower lids, threatening to spill over. Sam covered his mouth with his hand, his own eyes stinging.

"But I need you to hear something," she continued. "Because apparently you didn't know before." She hesitated, then plowed ahead. "You two are all I have. When I met you, my old life died. There is no one else. And I wouldn't change a single thing. There is nothing in this world that could ever make me betray you." Her eyes flicked to Sam briefly, then back to Dean. "No one they can threaten. No amount of money they can offer. Not even seeing my dad again. Nothing." She paused, and looked down at her hand, still holding Dean's. "I love you both. I need to you know that."

Several quiet moments passed. Ruthie withdrew her hand from Dean's, and clasped her hands together in front of her. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she sank down onto the edge of the bed. "Also," she began in a much quieter voice, "it's my fault that I looked so guilty to you." Her gaze focused on her hands in her lap. "I stopped looking for the werewolf months ago. Almost from the beginning. I didn't want you to find it." Her cheeks turned redder.

Sam sat up straighter. This was out of the blue.

"The other day, I did hide the paper from you. I was going after it myself. I hoped I'd be able to kill it and you wouldn't find out." She lifted one hand long enough to swipe it across her downturned eyes before going on. Her voice trembled now. "Because once it's dead, I'm supposed to go back home. That was our deal."

Dean's lips parted, like Sam's. The same open-mouthed moment of understanding.

She pressed a hand to her mouth; her shoulders shook a couple times. Then she pressed on in a hitching voice. "I didn't tell you any of this because I didn't think it was fair of me to ask." She lifted her bandaged left hand from her lap and held it up. "But now we know where secrets can lead. That's on me, and I'm sorry." She took a shaky breath. "So, I'm just going to be honest."

She looked from Dean to Sam, her brown eyes full and sincere. "I don't want to leave. Not once it's dead. Not ever. I want to stay with you, if you'll have me."

Sam just barely managed to stop himself from answering immediately, telling her of course she could stay, that they hadn't been planning to send her away. That they loved her, too. He looked at Dean, to see what he would say.

Dean lay there, looking at Ruthie, searching her face. They looked at each other for so long Sam started to wonder if he should leave the room. Finally, Dean lifted both arms, holding them out to her. Ruthie let out a sound that was half laugh, half cry. She bent forward onto his chest, and he folded his arms around her.

Sam exhaled. He felt slightly awestruck, like he'd just witnessed a miracle. A paralyzed man suddenly standing. A blind man receiving his sight.

Dean kissed the top of Ruthie's head, then faced Sam.

"What do you say, Sammy? I say she stays, on one condition."

Ruthie popped back up, one eyebrow raised. "What condition?"

"Pie, no less than once a week."

Sam ignored Dean's lame joke. "Ruthie, you have a home with us as long as you want it. We love you. You're family."

Now the tears shining in her eyes slipped down her cheeks.

"Nice, Sam. You made her cry."

Ruthie wiped her cheeks and stood up. "Thank you. Both of you." She took a deep breath and blew it out. "Okay. Well, I think I'll go find the doctor. He should take a look at Dean." She smiled at them on her way out of the room.

Sam waited until her footsteps had faded down the hallway. "I told you she's good for you."

Dean surprised him by nodding. "Yeah." Then he looked at Sam, no trace of joking in his tone. "But not like that." He looked out the doorway Ruthie had just passed through. "She's staying, Sam. Long-term. I'm not gonna mess that up. I don't wanna make things weird."

Sam started to argue, but thought better of it. He had his brother back. They had Ruthie back. For today, that was enough.

#

Sam shut the motel door behind him, tossed in the last bag, and closed the trunk. He climbed into the driver's seat. "Everybody buckled?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Remind me: how long until I'm allowed to drive?"

"Forty-eight hours," Ruthie piped up from the back seat. Before Dean could complain anymore, she asked, "So, have you two ever had a case basically solve itself like this before?"

Sam thought about it, but nothing came to mind. Ruthie had gotten a call the night before from Officer Dixon. They'd found a woman matching the witch's description dead inside a locked hotel room. Strangled, probably dead twenty-four hours. Dixon had sounded spooked, Ruthie said, and he'd told her there was "occulty stuff" all over the room. Additionally, they found a Sleeping Beauty costume and a spinning wheel.

So, it looked like their ghost had kept his promise. Mitchell Cross was his name, and he'd told the truth about falling from the tower. Sam thought he'd have to salt and burn a fresh body, but it turned out Mitch was cremated the morning after the witch died. So that loose end tied itself.

But the werewolf had gotten away. That fact bothered him, and he knew it infuriated Dean. Sam figured they hadn't heard the last of it, and they'd get another chance at it sooner or later.

Dean switched on the radio and started fiddling with the dial.

Sam swatted his hand aside. "Hey. Driver picks the music."

Dean stared at him for a second, mouth open as though he were going to argue. Then he crossed his arms and slumped back in his seat.

Sam and Ruthie exchanged a silent grin in the rearview.

The werewolf could wait. For now, Sam was content to be heading home.

 _No,_ he corrected himself. _I'm heading west._

Here in the Impala, with his family, he was already home.

 ** _I hope you've enjoyed this chapter of Sam, Dean, & Ruthie's story. There's more to come! The next installment, Wayward Son, is well underway, and I'll start posting it soon. Thank you so much for your support! Let me know what you thought about this story, and what you hope to see happen in the next._**


End file.
